


Keep On Keeping On Going

by imnotherehonest



Series: Work in Progress [4]
Category: Rise (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Hope, Internalised Homophobia, M/M, Swearing, The Conversation, spring awakening - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-01 15:36:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 30,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14523762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imnotherehonest/pseuds/imnotherehonest
Summary: Figuring yourself out is painful. Simon just needs to get through right now. He'll figure the rest out later, he tells himself.He leaves Annabelle's house and panics. He barely pushes through rehearsal. He faces his mother about the petition. Simon just keeps trying to push on through, until suddenly he can't keep it up the pretence anymore.[Update: Chapter 15. The Show Goes On. One Vinyard Scene as per 1x10.]





	1. Figure It Out later

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to keep my Britishness at bay, but words like "dumpster" are fictional here in the UK. Forgive me / let me know if I slip!

Simon sits in his car for hours. He isn’t actually entirely sure where he is. He just sits.

His phone rings and he just sits. It will stop.

It’s raining pretty hard. It’s dark. He’s cold. He’s shivering. He can’t bring himself to care. He can barely breathe.

Simon sits until he can barely feel his hands. He stares blindly out through the windscreen. His eyes are burning.. His cheeks are tight with dried salt, but hot tears still drip onto his lap. He’s not trying to stop them falling anymore. He wipes his nose on his sleeve.

Sobs still occasionally rip from his throat. His ribcage feels crushed and yet strangely hollow.

He rides out another wave of heaving breaths, a ripple of nausea tightening his empty stomach. It would be a mercy to be sick, he thinks.

His phone rings again. It blares obnoxiously in the quiet. He wants to ignore it. Why can’t it all just stop?!

Frustration flares behind his eyes. He lashes out, cursing as his elbow catches something solid and pain flashes up his arm.

“Shut up, shut up!” he jabs at the phone. His fingers scrabble at the slick screen. Just stop ringing! Just stop, just stop, just stop! He’s sobbing again. Lungs heaving.  Stop, stop, stop! Stop it!

He grabs the steering wheel blindly. Breathe. Just breathe. Just breathe!

Simon chokes down spit and swipes at his streaming nose. His mouth tastes like bile. The damp cold fabric of his shirt feels like sandpaper. He coughs out another gasping breath.

Breathe. He can do this.

Air out. He hiccoughs, and tries again. In and out. Trying to even out the spasms of his diaphragm. He can breathe. Breathing is simple. It’s just like a drama exercise. He rolls his shoulders back stiffly. Breathe. Okay. His arms are wrapped tight across his chest. He tries to focus on the feeling, the warmth. Feeling secure. He’s in his car. He’s in his car, and it’s going to be okay. He closes his eyes. Air in. Air out.

It’s really cold. His eyes feel strange when he opens them. Puffy and sore. And he’s really, really cold.

Simon numbly turns the key and the car vibrates back to life. He shivers along with it. Cold air blasts at him and he swears, blinking at the controls. Heat to max. Hands back under armpits. Keep breathing.

He dimly realises that he didn’t put on his coat when he left Annabelle’s house. It’s on the backseat. His feet are still half out of his shoes, laces trapped in the car door. He must look like a real mess.

A yawn pushes through his jaw, through his skull. His lips crack painfully. It moves his mind on.

He’s a mess, but he’s got this. He just has to keep going. Just keep going and figure it out later.

His phone glows dimly at him from the passenger seat. 3 missed calls from: Mum. 1 new voicemail. 5 unread messages.

It’s 10:34. His curfew is 10. Simon hasn’t ever broken curfew like that, but there’s no more panic to feel. He wonders vaguely if he should call home.

Keep going and figure it out later. Simon switches on the headlights, clicks in his seatbelt, checks his mirrors.

Figure it out later.


	2. The Blame Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blah blah British, blah blah sorry.

It’s too bright. But Simon keeps looking up into the spotlight. He can see lots of little spotlight beams dotting across his vision now, but it’s better than looking at Jeremy. Safer than looking at Jeremy.

It feels like there’s an abyss between them. The stage is bare. Jeremy is just sat there, like he strolled in a sat down in a theatre by accident. Contempt is rolling off him in waves, all aimed squarely at Simon. But even in that hideous combination of boots and cargo shorts, whenever Simon catches Jeremy’s gaze he wants everything to stop. He wants to just break down. He wants to stop acting, stop pretending. He wants to just let it all go, let it fall apart. But he can’t. He just can’t.

Simon is holding the tune. He’s singing the words. But the words are really, really flat.

He’s stiff as a board, about a metre away from Jeremy. He’s usually better at acting than this, but he can’t act and hold up this façade at the same time. It’s like he’s only held together with soggy cardboard. One wrong move and he might just disintegrate on stage.

He just needs to get through this play. He just needs to get through this play, and then he can figure it all out.

He’s expecting the call to stop, but it’s fine. His face is already set, blank. He’s been expecting the questioning, made the decision about how he’s going to handle it.

“We, uh, we decided–” Simon has started to get used to the rhythm of this. Telling people what they expect to hear. Half truths. Evasion. Talking people around with inference and suggestion. He tightens his grip on the microphone. “ –that we wanted to do a more subtle version of the scene.” He hates it. Hates hiding. Hates feeling the shame of it. It makes him feel cold. But this is his fault, and he’s taking the blame. He can’t deny that right now. He had tried to deny kissing Jeremy back, but that was a lie. He knows it was a lie. He had kissed back. He had wanted to kiss back. He had wanted to stay. He led Jeremy on. He’s not going to throw him under the bus now.

He just needs the get through the play. He needs Mazzou to back down so that he can just get through the play. He can feel Jeremy looking at him but he doesn’t break Mr Mazzouchelli’s gaze. He needs to sell it.

“It’s, uh, it’s what I’m comfortable with.” He knows what he’s implying, leaning on religion and his parents, but Mr Mazzouchelli can read what he likes between the lines. That doesn’t mean Simon is lying. He’s not lying. Not outright. He swallows the sticky feeling rising in his throat.

Mr Mazzouchelli is talking again though. Something inspiring no doubt. Simon drags his mind back to the present.

“We cannot be afraid of the material!” Mazzou declares. Simon feels his gut drop several feet. His gaze drops to a rough edge of the stage floor. There’s a splinter of wood jutting out sharply, just catching the light. He tries to focus on that. He mustn’t look at Jeremy. He can see the guy nodding in the periphery of his vision, the defeated line of his shoulders. He forces himself to take another breath.

“This is an erotic scene!” the teacher continues, and Simon wants to disappear. He wants to curl up in a ball and cry right there on the damn stage. But his spine stays tightly upright. He doesn’t dare move. His stomach is churning. He wants to be sick.

And the worst part is that something in his chest aches for the scenes he and Jeremy had been sharing before. Getting lost in grey-blue eyes, shared looks across rehearsal and soft smiles. He misses the casual touch on his arm to tell him to wait, the warmth of Jeremy’s hand as he helped him up off the floor. He misses Jeremy. And he’s screwing it all up. And he still can’t want any of it.

“It’s about lust and repressed sexuality!” Mr Mazzouchelli finishes. Simon almost snorts, almost screams. He feels like he’s crumbling. It’s just too close to home. But he’s frozen in place.

Mr Ward thundering in is almost a mercy. He isn’t sure he follows what is happening, too immersed in keeping breathing, keeping his face neutral.

Lexy runs out and they have 5 minutes. Simon needs those 5 minutes.

Simon doesn’t take any time to pause. He can’t look anywhere. He just turns and moves. There’s an all too familiar prickle around his eyes. He’s holding his breath, taking 2 steps at a time through the auditorium. Even in the large space he’s feeling trapped. The dark colours suffocate him, dry air like sawdust. Double doors swing quietly shut behind him, and as soon as he is out of the theatre he is running, sneakers pounding along the empty corridor. He needs to be somewhere else, anywhere else.

The halls are just a blur of colours. Heart leaping out of his chest, he wonders if he will be sick again. He shoves bodily through a door, metal handle jabbing sharply at his hip. That will leave a mark but he doesn’t care. The air feels thicker out here. It’s cold and wet, and it smells like grease and stale smoke. He spins on the spot, trying to orient himself in his own mind, eyes clenched shut. Pull it together, he tells himself. Pull. It. Together.

There’s a squeak of rubber on linoleum somewhere behind him and Simon is hit with yet another flood of panic. Before he can think he’s ducking behind a dumpster. The smell of grease is stronger here, mixed with something putrid. There’s a squelch under his shoe. Red paint is peeling off the side of the trash, rust blooming like mould across its surface. His breath feels unnaturally loud.

No one comes.

The sky is grey. The concrete underfoot is slick with dark sludge. Momentary relief slips into frustration. He slumps against the wall, brickwork rough under his fingers. He’s exhausted, his head like lead. Despite the grungy, smelly surroundings he wants to just collapse to the floor. He wants to just stay away from all the expectations. Stay away from people telling him how to be. Away from should and must, away from what everyone else thinks. Away from what he desperately wants and can’t have.

Instead he drags himself upright again. He takes one last breath of oily outside air, schools his face and forces himself back through the door. He stops by a bathroom, and stares at his own pale face for a moment in the graffitied mirror.

He lets himself back into the auditorium, relief swamping him as he realises that the troupe have moved on from the vineyard scene. Still, he wonders darkly, how long he can keep this up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day maybe I will write something a little less angsty, but my own sexuality crisis was plagued with several years of depression and anxiety so personally I think Simon is doing impressively well.
> 
> Chapters vs seperate stories in a series. Unsure. Let me know?


	3. Breakfast at the Saunders'

Simon is not a morning person. He usually gets through most of his morning routine before being fully awake. Today is no exception. The sky is grey, his brain is fuzzy and sluggish, and the shower takes too long to heat up. He’s dressed before he’s awake enough to check his phone.

He doesn’t usually have too many messages first thing anyway. Maybe something from Lillete, occasionally a query about homework or rehearsals from the others in the troupe. Today he has 11 new messages.

There’s one from Michael, sent at 10pm, asking if he’d seen a petition of some kind. After that there’s a string of messages from Lillete about the PTA. Which was a strange addition to the usual exchange of sarcasm, YouTube clips and grouches about school. Had spoken to his parents? Was he okay? Simon stares at the messages with a sinking feeling that he’s missed something. 

He fumbles to go back. He had messages from Jolene too, she was always to the point. He blinked at the bright screen with it’s blue bubbles of text.

_Wtf???_

_Ur parents signed the PTA petition_

_They want to close us down_

_Talk to them!!_

There was a screenshot of the school website with a list of signatures. And there in the middle, red pen on white paper, the words Robert & Patricia Saunders.

Simon doesn’t stop to think. He’s been fighting his dad for this show all the way through, but his mum, really? He can smell cooking, hear his mum’s voice in the kitchen with Emma. He doesn’t see the clean white of the kitchen, hear the faint twitter of birds from outside. All he can see is the stark red of confident curved letters, blocked out in capital letters.

“How could you do this?” he explodes. How could she do this to him? Here she is, spotless cream cardigan, cooking breakfast like some perfect mother. How could she sign that petition? And how can she just calmly go on, like she doesn’t know how important this is to him? Acting like she hasn’t done anything?

“The _stupid_ PTA are trying to shut down our show, and you signed it!” Simon shoves all the frustration of the week into his words. She stills at the outburst. Everything is going wrong, and now even his mother won’t support him! With everything else going on, he thought that she might understand this. Understand how important it was! It hurts. The pang of tears threatens. “I am the only person in the troupe who’s parents signed this, how- how am I supposed to face everyone?”

He stops to face her, to accuse her. But she shakes her head. Concern and surprise crease soft features.

“No, let me see this…” Her voice is quiet, but there’s a startled incredulity in her tone that makes Simon pause. The kitchen is still. Even the birds seemed to be holding their breath.

He can hear her breathing. Sharp intakes and exhales. She stares at the small screen, disbelief written across her face. Her brow is creased tight, eyes a little wide, mouth slightly open. She didn’t know. He can see it, even before she looks back up at him.

Without the anger, all he’s left with is pain. Simon feels it swell in his chest, eyes starting to fill. But he refuses to look down, holds his head up, stops his lip from trembling.

Patricia Saunders looks at her son, defiant and frightened in his own home and something sets cold and hard in her gut. She pulls back her own complicated mesh of anger and confusion and betrayal, and stops and looks at her son.

“Honey, this is a mistake.” It’s categorical. The statement gentle but laced with steel. The wounded terror in Simon’s eyes is almost too much. She looks down at the phone again. Her name is still there. Still there, printed in all caps. “Do you understand me?” she breathes, pleading, his eyes tugging at her. “It is a mistake, and…”

A wave of fear stops her for a fraction of a second. It flickers across her face. But damn it, this is her _child_! She is not letting Robert do this to her child.

“And I will take care of it.” She tells herself as much as she tells him. Simon is still looking at her with distrust, eyes red-rimmed. He looks so young and so lost. She wants to just pull him into her arms like when he was a little boy. Just hug everything better and tell him it was all going to be okay.

But that won’t fix this.

His shoulders are set, like he’s barely holding himself together. He looks fragile, refusing to let the tears fall.

He just nods slowly. He takes a deep breath and finally looks away. She can see the cogs turning, see him blink through the wetness in his eyes. And when he turns back to look at her, his face is neutral again.

Her heart shatters.

 “Okay,” he says simply. He pulls his face into an expression that she would have almost sworn to be a smile, just stopping short of his eyes. He nods at Emma and heads back upstairs. She can hear him moving around, getting on with his morning. Like that soul-crushing terror she had seen in his eyes was just part of another day.

Patricia feels her own eyes prick with tears, and swallows back a sob. She turns to lean heavily on the counter. How long has Simon been dealing with this on his own?

Today, she resolves. She deals with this today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These were written in a mad flurry of feelings over episode 8, so do let me know if they are full of spelling mistakes or anything. 
> 
> More is likely to come, so watch this space. And as ever, feedback is fantastic (even critical, I promise!)


	4. Revelations is not the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is another chapter on the same day. What can I say? I don't have work today and I'm frantically obsessed with this show!

Patricia has been going over and over everything her head. She’s been sat in one position for nearly an hour when he comes home. The more she goes over it the more it eats at her.

She’s been putting this off. She’s been putting this off for years. She has been waiting for the right time, the right moment. She has been telling herself to wait for so long she doesn’t really remember what she’s been waiting for. She had told herself that she didn’t want to rock the boat, that she didn’t want to hurt the kids, that she might be wrong. She hasn’t been a doormat, but she hasn’t been facing her fears either.

Seeing Simon that morning had really hit her. The deep, deep hurt in his face. All that fear and anger and pain. And he still had the courage to face her, to stand up for what he believed in. She feels a well of pride, and then a flush of shame. She’s been afraid, yes, but she has also been a coward.

That is going to change.

Their living area was designed to be bright and clean, but simple. Plain blinds, pale-washed wooden panelling, pictures of still life and green landscapes. Today it feels soulless, like another part of the sham.

The door opens. Patricia feels her stomach drop, cold resignation stiffening her movements. She looks up silently toward the sound. The door slams and she flinches. When did it all go so wrong?

Usually she goes to greet him. She can’t bring herself to move.

“Hey, where is everyone?” Robert Saunder’s voice calls out, bright tone clashing harshly with his wife’s clenched jaw.

She had told the kids to stay upstairs. She wanted to talk to him alone. She needed to talk to him alone. It would be too hard otherwise.

The silence is painful.

“Upstairs.” She can feel the strain in her voice already and holds her spine stiff in the hard wooden chair. She’s been dreading this conversation for years. She feels suddenly hyperaware of the space around her. The soft tap of brown tile under his spotlessly shined shoes. The rustle of his crisp charcoal suit, fitted and impeccably neat. The absence of sound from upstairs. The gentle brush of air from the door on her face as she sits and waits for him to come to her.

He’s surprised and confused, and then he’s concerned, handsome face frowning under neat silver hair.

“Everything alright?” he prompts. His shoulders are relaxed, there’s no guilt in his expression and Patricia can’t hold his gaze. She needs to do this. She needs to do this now. She sighs and shakes her head. The paper feels too light in her hand, the red names screaming at her from the page as she stands up to face her husband.

“Why would you do this?” She can’t bring herself to say what it is he’s doing. She almost adds ‘why would you do this to our son’ but holds it back. She wants a discussion, not a screaming match.

She almost keeps her eyes down, but then she remembers Simon’s face that morning. She is going to brave this out. She lifts her chin.

Her husband takes one look at the page and his face hardens, shuts off. Like it has every time this play has come up.

“Because I believe everything that petition states.” It’s blunt and harsh and final and everything that she had expected, but the empty tone is more than she can bear.

“Robert, how _dare_ you put my name on that?” she breathes, hearing her hurt in every word. His face stays blank, defensive. His nostrils flare, hands hanging by his sides.

“I didn’t realise I needed your permission to defend our basic beliefs.” His voice is flat, empty, inscrutable. His eyes are cold. The passive-aggressive defence makes it so much worse. All she can see is the way that Simon reassembled himself that morning, like that was normal.

“Well, can’t you see what it does to our _son_?!” she exclaims. She wants him to react. She wants him to feel something, say something, anything that shows that this is not some selfish power-move. He starts to speak over her, starts trying to say he is protecting their son. All she can see is pain and fear in young brown eyes.

“It is a total betrayal!” Her voice cracks. How can he be so blind!

“This is protecting our beliefs. This is standing up for what we believe.” His voice is still sickeningly calm. Patricia wants to shake him. How he can he just ignore everything right in front of him?

“No. No, this is you!” she’s trembling with it. All of the fear and frustration and hurt she’s been bottling up for years. “It’s you! Hiding! Behind religion. And God. And morality!” It feels so freeing to just let the words out. “To stop Simon from being who he is!”

Robert is finally silent. She stops to watch the words sink in. His face stays blank. The only sign of the cogs turning is his shift from one foot to another. She almost thinks she might have got through to him, but his eyes are still neutral. There’s a fabricated surprise trying to lift the intonation of his voice when he says,

“Who is he?” It isn’t a question. It’s a dare. It’s a shove back from behind closed off eyes. “What do you mean?” There’s the faintest hint of fear, hidden in the challenge.

Patricia just shakes her head in disappointment, still clutching her chest like her own hands are the only thing between her heart and the open air.

He can’t hold her stare. He looks down and away. Hand going to his face as he turns to walk away from the conversation. Again.

“No,” Patricia calls him back. Not today. He doesn’t get to just walk away today. “No. No!” She grabs his arm, and she’s frightened again. This is the hardest part. “This isn’t about him.” Her voice shakes. “This is about us, and our marriage.”

He’s still not looking at her. She steels herself again.

“How. Dare. You. Think that signing that represents me.” Each word hurts to say. “How could you possibly- know that _little_ of your own–”

“Our marriage is fine!” His voice is still calm, his face still inscrutable. It makes everything worse. Patricia is almost hysterical. How can he think that _this_ is fine?

“We don’t have a marriage, Robert!” It comes out high pitched and desperate. “We don’t have a marriage. We pretend.” Her voice drops almost to a whisper. And he just stands there. Eyes closed off. Silent.

“There’s no intimacy. There’s no tenderness. You _never_ touch me.” The wall is all that is holding her up. Patricia feels sick. And Robert just grimaces and looks away, eyes flitting around the hallway. The slightest hint of discomfort is starting to seep through the careful mask he has curated. She hadn’t thought this conversation would ever come, but there’s no holding it back now. She has to keep going, has to ask. “Is that why you were afraid of him playing a gay boy? Is that why?”

Now Robert is just staring at the floor. His blank face seems unstuck. For once he doesn’t know what to say. She had expected him to deny it, to be angry. He looks frightened.

“Tell me the truth, is that why?” Patricia reaches out desperately, tries to pull him closer to her, make him look at her. His expression is suddenly heart-wrenchingly reminiscent of his son’s. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but then he closes it again.

She watches his face slip back into place, watches the corners of his eyes harden. Watches as he walls himself away again.

“Patricia,” he starts. For a second she thinks he’s going to deny it. For a brief moment she thinks, maybe she has it all wrong. But his voice is flat and hard. It’s too calm. “I’m never going to stop fighting for this family. I will never stop fighting for what I believe.”

The floor is gone from underneath her feet. It’s true. Her darkest, most secret and devastating fear is true. It’s true. Somehow she is still winded. She wants to deny it, but she can’t find any words. She just stands there shaking her head.

“This conversation is over,” he says. His face is stony.

No. She tries to hold onto his arm again. Make him come back, make him talk about it. He doesn’t even turn. Her breaths are coming as sobs and gasps. She watches him walk slowly up the stairs like she’s watching someone else’s life, and feels herself crumble from the inside.

Her whole being aches with it. She can’t find the air. Her shoulders cave. It feels like she’s sinking, drowning.

 

* * *

 

Upstairs Simon feels like his insides have shrivelled up and died. His hands are shaking as he hears the footsteps up the stairs, hears muffled sobs. He shuts his eyes and wills himself not to cry in front of his little sister.

He’d known the confrontation was going to be bad. He’d seen the look in his mother’s eyes when she had told him and Emma to stay upstairs so that she could talk to their father. Her eyes had been hard with emotion, face tight. He hadn’t resisted.

He knew it was about the petition. If anything, his mother had seemed more angry about it than he had been. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt that his mother was facing up to his dad because of him, so as soon as the front door had shut he had told Emma to stay quiet and they had listened. His mum’s voice had raised and he had tiptoed out onto the landing, heart hammering against his ribs.

His dad’s voice had stayed soft, muffled. So Simon had crept down the stairs, hardly daring to breathe. The hair at the back of his neck standing on end.

It was like listening to his own thoughts. His emotions screaming - hurt and fear mingling with desperation - screaming at everything he’s been brought up to think, and those thoughts coolly rebuffing each outburst, dismissing everything.

But unlike in his head, his mum keeps going.

“No, it’s you!" she exclaims. "Hiding! Behind religion. And God. And morality. To stop Simon from being who he is!”

Simon feels like he’s been hit by a bus. He’s paralysed. They know. Despite everything, they _know_.

He hears the rebuke, the question. Who is he? What do you mean? He feels it in his own chest. Feels the lie, the shame, the pretence. His parents _know_.

He’s in freefall. But it’s so anticlimactic. All that fear, and they _know_. It takes him a second to realise that the voices are getting closer before he realises he should move. He's oddly calm. It feels like he’s in the eye of a storm. But his parents are still arguing. His mother says,

“This isn’t about him! This is about us and our marriage!”

Simon slips back into Emma’s room. The strange calm slipping slightly. His mother’s voice is so hurt. He shuts the door as his dad tried to rebuff her again. Her voice breaks.

“We don’t have a marriage!” She is exclaiming.

Emma is crying. Simon just feels hollow. He reaches out to her, and she squeezes his arm. But the words echoing from the hall, make him stall. He places a finger on his lips and keeps listening.

The hollow feeling in his chest is ballooning.

He remembers a conversation from a year ago, Emma turning to him out of the blue and asking if their parents were going to get a divorce. He remembers trying to reassure her then, that maybe they did talk when they were alone, maybe they didn’t hold hands and kiss like other people’s parents because they were reserved people. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

His mind flicks to Annabelle and he has a sudden vision of himself standing at the bottom of those stairs, of her pleading with him. Telling him that he never touches her. His own child overhearing, terrified and hurting. It’s horrifying. It’s horrifying because he can imagine it. Imagine himself stood there blankly, unable to deny anything. Imagine that after years of lying and pretending, hair starting to grey, he just might brace himself and coldly turn and walk away.

Even in his own mind he hasn’t been able to say the word. To hear his mother say the word gay aloud is absolutely chilling.

And then it’s over. But it’s so, so far from over.

It’s like a new, bloody wound has ripped through their family.

The wall is cold. Simon lets his head fall back. Screws his eyes shut. He can just make out his sister’s sniffling breaths. His legs won’t support him any more and he lets himself fall down the wall.

He is so focussed on willing back tears that he doesn’t hear Emma shuffling over to him. But then she’s throwing an arm around his shoulders and leaning warm against his side, head on his shoulder as he hugs his knees. He can’t say anything and neither does she. They sit, and sniff. But at least they aren’t alone.

They sit like that for a while, silently unified in the small space. Until the tears have stopped. Until the doorbell rings and their mum shuffles up the stairs, eyes pink but face held taut. She hands them a pizza box silently. Simon doesn’t think they’ve ever had takeout pizza at home before in his life. He just stares at the cardboard in his hand.

His mum looks down at them both with a watery smile. And then she leans back against the opposite wall, and sits down on the floor to match them. She takes the box back from Simon’s frozen hands and places it down on the carpet. Simon and Emma just watch as she flips it open and takes a slice in one hand. Emma hesitantly reaches out for her own slice, but Simon just watches in new-found admiration as his mother smiles at him, mouth full of pizza and gestures for him to take some. Simon finds himself smiling tentatively back.

Sat on the floor eating takeout with his sister and his mum is the most at home he’s felt in months. And the pizza is so good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this? A reduction in angst? Might Simon be able to fast-track figuring out his sexuality afterall?  
> Who knows, I haven't written any more yet!
> 
> Let me know if you enjoyed. Or if you didn't but still somehow made it to the end, let me know anyway!


	5. Totally fucked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deep breath! So here it goes, The Conversation. You know the one.
> 
> Buckle up, it's gonna be a bumpy ride!

Simon sleeps better that night than he’s slept all year. There’s sunshine peaking through from behind the curtains. He smiles, feeling the warmth of it on his face. He had been dreaming about something nice, but he can’t quite remember what it was.

And then the memory of the day before slams into him like a truck to the chest.

He lies there in the soft gloom and wonders if his mum would let him stay at home, let him avoid school for just one more day. But he knows he can’t. It would cause another argument between his parents for one. And if he stops, he’s not sure he’ll be able to persuade himself to start again.

There’s no cooked breakfast when he gets downstairs today. Just Emma sat on her own at the table, staring miserably into a bowl of cereal. The discarded pizza boxes are still on the side, and the smell of cold pepperoni grease twists his empty stomach.

He dispatches them into the bin at the back and checks his watch. His dad’s car is gone from the driveway. There’s no sign of his mum. He checks the time again and makes a decision.

“Come on,” he says to his sister, heaving his school bag onto his shoulder. “Looks like I’m driving you to school today.”

The Middle School is slightly out of his way, almost on the other side of town, but he watches Emma hurry in through the school gates on time and slips his car back into drive.

He’s still circling the high school parking lot for a space when the bell rings, and as he tugs on the parking brake, Simon contemplates skipping school again. He takes a second to compose himself, sends a text to his mum to say that Emma made it on time and steadies himself to face the day.

Arriving at school late was not something Simon did often. He hesitated and knocked on the door before walking into math class. He opens his mouth to give a reasonable excuse, something partly true and partly edited. Some evasion to smooth the way to his desk. But the lie dies in his throat.

He can see Jeremy’s face, grey eyes sharp in the blur of the faces of his classmates. He opens his mouth and closes it again. He can’t look away. He wants to slap the mask of indifference back over his face, but he can’t. He doesn’t want to. He can hear Kranepool talking, but it’s distant.

Then Jeremy rolls his eyes and it’s like a spell is broken.

“We’re waiting Simon,” the teacher snaps, staring at him expectantly. Simon looks at him in dull, wide-eyed confusion. Suddenly all he can think is that he doesn’t want to become his dad. His lungs shriek at him to breathe. The silence stretches.

“I –” He tries, and fumbles. He should have skipped school. He glances back at Jeremy. The irritation on his face is slightly marred with concern across the classroom. He just can’t get his brain to make the words.

“Are you alright?” Even Mr Kranepool looks worried now. Simon tightens his grip on his rucksack, and nods at the beige linoleum floor. He wills himself not to cry in front of everyone. The class is eerily quiet. Mr Kranepool just looks at him, clearly unconvinced, but he gestures to the sea of desks for Simon to take a seat and starts the lesson without more than a second glance.

At his desk Simon closes his eyes for a second, trying to slow his heart down. He wishes he’d eaten breakfast now and his throat is dry. But he’s here now. He focuses his eyes on the equations on the board and wills himself to concentrate, even if he has to fight through one moment at a time.

He had hoped to see Lillete at the mid-morning break, but there was no sign of her at the lockers or in the corridor and he doesn’t catch sight of her at all until lunch.

She looked as bad as he felt, eyes red and tired. Her hair didn’t look brushed, her eyeliner was smudged on one side and her top was crumpled. Sandwich in hand, she was heading in the opposite direction to the canteen and shook her head wordlessly at him, phone pressed to her ear.

“Later,” she promised over her shoulder.

But with no further sign of Lillete, the hour dragged on. On autopilot, he almost went to sit in his usual corner of the lunch hall. But there was Annabelle, red hair a tinge more dull than usual, her usual cheer knocked down a notch. He wasn’t ready for that conversation. He turned on his heel and headed in the opposite direction before anyone could spot him. He doesn’t look at the chattering tables of students, he just heads to the nearest empty table and perches there.

He swallows a few mouthfuls of food without tasting it, without seeing it. It does nothing for the unease stirring in his abdomen. He isn’t sure that he’s really hungry anymore, but he forces back some more of the non-descript mush.

Simon somehow makes it through the rest of the afternoon without looking anyone in the eye. He keeps his eyes firmly locked on his books and the board. He just can’t seem to summon the energy to animate his face, the energy to pretend that everything is fine. It’s not fine. He’s not fine.

But without the mask of indifference he feels vulnerable. He can’t bring himself to even think about rehearsal that evening.

He wants to talk to Lillete. She would be a voice of reason and understanding. She had known him most of his life. She knew him almost as well as he knew himself. She had known he wasn’t ready to have sex with Annabelle. She had–

His brain stalls. He almost drops his pen. She had known.

Did she _know_?

He can’t drag his brain back to English. It’s only 15 minutes until the end of the day. The clock ticks slowly. Black hands dragging across the greying face. The sickening calm is back, flooding his brain with information. The dent in the side of his desk. The soft buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead. The sour smell of teenagers wearing not quite enough deodorant. The scratch of pens and pencils on all sides.

The bell blares, reverberating through the small room. Simon feels like he’s moving through treacle as he gathers his books. Lights pop in his vision as he stands up, and the world fades for a fraction of a second. He’s only half up out of his seat, and he drops back, closing his eyes to wait it out before he stands again. He should have eaten more at lunch, he tells his light-headed brain.

Simon doesn’t notice grey eyes watching him as Jeremy slips out of the room.

 

The day is feeling insurmountably long. Simon had snagged a chocolate bar from the vending machine outside before rehearsal so the floating sensation has passed, but he still feels drained.

Lillete is at the rehearsal, and even though her acting is fine, Simon can tell she’s somewhere else. Every time she goes off stage she checks her phone distractedly. She shows no sign of noticing his attempts to get her attention. Clearly something is on her mind, and even Robbie can’t seem to draw her out of it. Simon feels somehow more alone now than he has all day.

He can’t really tell how he is on stage. He knows all his lines and all his cues, he sings all the words. He just can’t seem to reach any of the joy he normally feels on stage, he can’t feel any of the energy that usually drives him. He’s relieved when the rehearsal doesn’t focus on his and Jeremy’s scene, but at the same time he finds himself looking for Jeremy.

He just feels so lost in this giant tangled mess, so alone in trying to navigate it. Only Jeremy knows about their kiss. Only Jeremy has pushed him, kept pushing him to be _really_ honest. He’s messed it all up with cowardice and anger, but Jeremy made him want to be honest. That connection between them had felt clean, real, true.

He can’t deal with the rest of it yet. Can’t think about the way it felt to touch Jeremy. Can’t let himself remember the way his body had reacted to Jeremy’s proximity. Can’t even approach the hot curl of want in his gut and elsewhere when Jeremy kissed him, when he had kissed Jeremy back.

But he is desperate for that connection now. He needs someone to talk to, needs someone to help him unravel the chaos in his head.

Jeremy is sat on his own. He’s half sprawled on the floor at the back of the wings, shoulders slouched, leaning against the wall. His arms move to encircle his body as Simon approaches, mouth drawing into a line. His eyes are guarded. He doesn’t move away as Simon tentatively lowers himself to the floor next to him, but he doesn’t look at him either.

“Hey,” Simon whispers, unconsciously mirroring the tight set of the other guy’s shoulders. Jeremy glances at him and looks away. Simon supposes that’s fair.

“Uh, look Jeremy,” he tries again.

“What?” the guy snaps. It’s just a tiny bit too loud, ringing out through the quiet auditorium. Jeremy grimaces slightly, apology flashing on his face, grey eyes softening just a touch as he looks back at Simon. This time though, he doesn’t look away immediately. He chews his lip, and looks at Simon. Really looks at Simon.

Simon just holds his gaze. He can’t do anything else, he’s lost in the soothing depth of the other boy’s eyes. God, he’s missed looking at Jeremy. He feels like a man in a desert looking at an oasis.

“Are you okay?” the quiet question startles Simon. He knows he’s staring, but he doesn’t know how to stop. He feels his mouth drop open slightly, cheeks flushing hot. He’s saved from answering by a harsh cough.

“No talking in the wings!” comes a sharp voice. Ms Wolfe.

Simon is almost vibrating with nerves, but he can’t just leave this right now.

“Can we talk?” He whispers. “Outside? Please?”

The door through to the greenroom is just there, slightly ajar. He motions to it with his head, and Jeremy looks from it back to him. He hesitates for a second, but some of Simon’s desperation must show on his face because Jeremy nods curtly and silently rises to his feet, padding away without looking back. Simon closes the door behind himself carefully.

Jeremy is looking at him expectantly. The irritation is back on his face and Simon feels a fresh wave of nerves at being back here, in this room. He can hear himself asking Jeremy ‘ _why?’_. Except now it’s overlaid with his dad’s voice, full of stilted surprise and challenge; ‘ _who is he? What do you mean?’._

“What do you want, Simon?” Jeremy’s voice cuts through the silence. It grates with exasperation and frustration. And that is Simon’s fault. He doesn’t know what he wants.

Simon just shakes his head mutely. He runs a hand over his face. He wants to be honest, he really wants to be honest but it’s just so hard. He changes tack.

“H- how did you know?” It comes out as barely a whisper. It hangs in the air between them. It throws Jeremy off guard and his expression flickers, unidentified emotions rippling across his face.

“What do you-” Jeremy frowns in confusion.

“How did you know that you- that you _like_ guys?” Simon clarifies, stumbling over the words. As soon as the question is out he feels like he is deflating. He feels small in the empty room.

He can see Jeremy’s mind working furiously, emotions churning. His mouth is slightly open, pink lips parted gently. Simon’s skin tingles with the memory of how soft those lips were on his. And then he remembers himself, eyes snapping back up to Jeremy’s. He can’t hold the questioning gaze.

“Please…” Simon begs. He’s barely shorter than Jeremy, but today it’s like he’s shrinking. Jeremy stays watching him for what feels like forever. Simon wants to keep staring at the grey carpet, keep tracing the polyester threads, but he forces himself to look back up.

Jeremy is conflicted. He’s curious and confused. He can still feel the sting, the ache from their last confrontation. But there’s that lost look in Simon’s face, there’s the authenticity that drew him in. And there’s so much pain in those dark eyes.

Part of him wants to be petty, to shut the boy down and storm out. To hurt Simon like Simon had hurt him. To lash out and just let all of these feelings explode. But another part of him knows he can’t do that. He can’t do that to this beautiful, vulnerable, stupid, frustrating, amazing guy.

Damnit.

Thing is he also can’t put himself out there again without getting something back. He’s vulnerable too, feelings raw like an exposed nerve. He needs something from this exchange or it’s too unbalanced. If he’s putting his bleeding heart out there again, if he’s risking Simon stamping all over it again, he needs to know _why._

“If we talk about this-” Jeremy’s voice is slow, uncertain. “If you want to talk about this… Simon. You have to tell me what’s going on. I can’t-“

“Okay,” Simon doesn’t hesitate. He needs this. It’s a fair exchange. Jeremy deserves some answers. He’s not sure how he’s going to explain the chaos raging in his mind, nut he can try. For Jeremy.

“Okay,” Jeremy echoes. He’s almost surprised it was so easy. He looks around the small space. He’s stalling slightly, gathering his thoughts. The random clutter of props and paper, the notice board overflowing with flyers, the general mess feels somewhat fitting. He feels tired. “Okay,” he repeats again. If he’s doing this he wants to sit down. Simon follows him like a shadow, silent, waiting.

“So the scene is the summer before freshman year,” he starts. He lets his mind flick back. “I guess it had been on my mind before, but I always told myself I’d just grow into liking girls. I don’t know.” It’s soothing. Jeremy has told this story before. This is his story to tell, this is on his terms. He feels his shoulders relax.

“My sister had only dated a couple of times, so I wasn’t too worried about it.” His parents had always told both of them to focus on school, that they didn’t need to find the love of their life yet, that they were young, and they had time to figure it all out.

“It was a really hot summer. And Katie was going to be a senior in the fall, so she decided that she was going to go and ask next door if we could use their pool.” Jeremy can see her saying, ‘ _what’s the worst that could happen?’._  

“We’d never spoken to them before, but she just marched straight up to the front door and asked, bold as brass.” Simon was hanging on every word. Jeremy is smiling softly and he never wants it to stop.

“They looked so damn confused, you have no idea. But then they laughed and agreed. Turned out they had a kid who was also going into senior year, but he was away at some athletics camp and no one was using the pool anyway.

“It was amazing. Katie and I would just go next door every day. We didn’t have to be stuck at home, we could just sit around and swim and do nothing.

“And then Joseph came back.

“We just went around one day and this guy was sat on the edge of our pool. But he was really cool about it.” Simon feels something squirm at the look in Jeremy’s eyes now, but Jeremy was oblivious, lost in his story.

“Joe was just really cool. He was a senior, he was in a band. And he was really nice, like really nice.”

“And you just knew?” Simon cuts in, an edge in his voice. He knows it’s not fair, but he doesn’t like the twist in his gut when Jeremy talks about this other guy.

“What? No.” Jeremy looks at him then. “No, it wasn’t that easy Simon. It didn’t even occur to me at first.” He stops, searching Simon’s face for something and sighs.

“I just- I thought he was cool. I wanted to hang out with him. I- I didn’t realise I liked him like _that_ for ages. I knew he was attractive, but it wasn’t- I didn’t-” There’s a plea in Jeremy’s voice that makes Simon want to apologise. He’s almost relieved when Jeremy finds his place back in the rhythm of the story. He asked. He has to deal with hearing the answer.

“I just wanted to spend time with him. I admired him. He was smart and funny, he played guitar. Katie and I kept going over to swim… It was a really great summer.

“And then we went back to school and while it was still warm and Katie and I still went over in the evenings. Then he started helping me with homework occasionally, and when it got too cold for us to go swimming, we started going over in the evenings to study instead. I liked spending time with him. When things got busy with the play, I missed spending time with him. Katie was still going over nearly every day, and I got annoyed about it. I knew it was stupid, but I wanted to be there.

“But he’d text me these stupid little messages whenever I was at rehearsal, and it felt amazing.

“I remember thinking that I’d never had such a good _friend_.” The word is spat out with a bitter scoff. Jeremy is far away. Simon feels a lurch in his chest. He wants to reach out. He wants to make the old hurt in grey eyes go away. He feels an ache of familiarity, and something uncomfortable washes through him. But he waits, not wanting to break the fragile truce. Jeremy’s voice is quiet when he starts talking again.

“After the last show of Guys and Dolls, I’m sat waiting for my sister because she was going to drive me to the afterparty. And I get one of these texts from Joseph. He had been in the audience and he said something ridiculously nice about the show, about me, I don’t remember exactly. But I remember the feeling, just so warm and happy.

“And my sister comes up to me with this look on her face, she says-” Jeremy changes his voice slightly, higher pitched than his normal tone. His eyebrows are raised, there’s a dry amusement in his eyes as he mimics his sister.

“ _Ooo-oo-oooh! I know that face. Jeremy!”_ He makes a mock giggle. “ _Who texted you?_ ” The tone is suggestive and teasing. And then Jeremy drops back to his own face, and groans slightly.

“It took me a second and then it all just clicked into place. I knew I liked him. I _liked_ him. I-” He’s looking back at Simon now, with a wry grin. “Suddenly I felt like an idiot. I’d had a bloody great crush on this guy for _months_ and I was just utterly oblivious!” The smile is contagious.

“I mean it was really crap for a while.” Simon is transfixed. There’s a soft happiness in Jeremy’s eyes as he talks about it. “I didn’t talk to anyone over Christmas in case they figured it out, I was jealous every time someone else spent time with Joe. I finally spoke to my sister the day before term started because I was just such a mess, and I sat there and cried at her for ages. I think she thought I’d killed someone or something. She seemed kind of relieved when I said I didn’t know if I was straight!” He laughs.

Simon feels an instinctive well of something like fear, but Jeremy is more relaxed than he has seen him in weeks. He admires Jeremy, he realises. The quiet courage of the story, the gentle self-admonishment, the soft strength behind pale eyes. He wants to keep watching this boy telling his story.

“I didn’t talk about it to anyone else for months, I didn’t audition for the play because I didn’t want to think about Joseph and that text. I avoided him. I was embarrassed, I guess. I didn’t want him to know. I felt like I’d done something wrong. He had a new girlfriend anyway, so Katie wasn’t going over so much anymore either. It was just easier…” Jeremy stops uncertainly, seeming to realise he’s going past the remit of Simon’s question, but Simon needs to hear how it ends.

“But you did come out.” He prompts. There had been a whisper through their year that he had paid more attention to than he had meant to. Jeremy nods slowly. Simon needs to know. “How?”

“I didn’t like feeling like I was lying.” He says simply, like that explained everything. He fidgets looking back at his hands. “I- I started telling some friends. Just telling them I wasn’t sure I was straight. And they were great, but it still felt wrong and I couldn’t figure out why.” He’s smiling with that self-depreciating look in his face again.

“They would say that I had doubled my dating pool or something and it annoyed me.” The light is back in his expression. “You know what I realised?” His face is split with a genuine smile, amusement dancing boldly in his grey-blue eyes. “I’m so gay.”

Simon hasn’t understood the concept of “gay pride” until that moment, but there’s daring behind the amusement and he can see it. There’s a victory in the strength Jeremy puts behind the simple words. He’s fought himself for how he feels. And now that it’s accepted and factual, and he’s okay again, he can look back at all of that hurt and fear and see the end. The satisfaction of the resolution and having endured and pulled himself back up.

Simon smiles weakly and looks down. He wishes he had that strength. His eyes are wet again, but he doesn’t try to wipe them dry. He’s doing this.

He doesn’t wait for Jeremy to prompt him for his part of the deal. He takes a breath as the first tear rolls down his face. He wants to be honest now. He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. He can’t look at Jeremy as he starts to form the words, but he can feel the curious gaze.

“Ever since we started the show-” No going back now. Simon teeters on the precipice for a fraction of a second and then dives right in. “I have these feelings…” Jeremy asked him for honesty. His voice wobbles slightly, but he keeps speaking. “And I feel like if I ever opened up to them, it’d just blow up my family.”

Another tear slips down his face, and he fights the urge to sniff.

“And they’re my family, you know?” Simon finishes heavily, glancing at Jeremy. The other boy is watching him, eyes guarded.

Simon is confirming what he had felt, what he had known. He feels for him. God, everyone at Stanton Drama knows about Simon’s parents. Jeremy knows that Simon’s parents signed the petition to shut down the play, knows they’re religious. But Simon can’t live for them. He almost says it, but then another thought flashes up.

“What about Annabelle?” His voice is hard in the tiny room, uncompromising. It’s an accusation and he sees it hit its target. Guilt bleed into Simon’s face. Jeremy steels himself for excuses, sets his shoulders to shut them down. But Simon just deflates further.

“I know.” He almost doesn’t catch it, it’s so quiet. What is that even supposed to mean?

Tears are flowing freely down Simon’s face now. He sniffs, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, shoulders shrinking into himself, eyes glued to the script still clutched absentmindedly in his lap.

A tiny part of Jeremy, the part that is hurt and bitter and spiteful, thinks _good_. It thinks Simon deserves to feel that hurt, to feel small, to suffer. The rest of him is appalled and he snuffs out the thought. Simon is really hurting. He’s clearly confused and lost and struggling. It doesn’t excuse how he’s acted, but he’s trying. Jeremy doesn’t think he can realistically expect more from him right now. It still hurts, but Simon is just human, just another teenager. And he’s in pain.

Jeremy doesn’t know if he can get past Simon sleeping with Annabelle, but he can be kind. He’s about to open his mouth, to try to comfort Simon in some way, but Simon speaks first.

“I’m really sorry, Jeremy.” His voice is small and quiet, slightly choked with tears. But there’s a new ferocity of some kind in his eyes, a genuine intensity. “I really didn’t want- I didn’t think.”

Jeremy is thrown now. After last week, he hadn’t expected to ever actually get an apology from Simon. He can feel the surprise on his face, but Simon doesn’t seem to notice. He’s back to looking at his hands again.

“I panicked.” Jeremy knows he asked for honesty, but Simon is really laying himself bare in front of him. “I asked out Annabelle because I thought maybe having a girlfriend would fix things!”

Simon’s voice is desperate. He’s laying out his soul. He doesn’t know how to stop. He’s not even sure who he’s talking to now. He’s not sure if he’s telling Jeremy or if he’s telling himself.

“But then we kissed and I…” Simon stops, the words strangled in his throat. Jeremy doesn’t miss the admission. _We kissed_.

He stamps down the twinge of fragile hope trying to seed behind his sternum. Simon had still slept with Annabelle. Simon had used Annabelle. Even if he could forgive him for everything else, he couldn’t let that go. He knew it had to have been Annabelle’s first time. Even if he forgave Simon for shutting him down, for lashing out, for leading him on and then stamping all over his feelings, it wasn’t enough. An apology couldn’t cover that level of selfishness. And that knowledge sits cold and immovable in Jeremy’s gut.

Simon starts talking again, and despite himself Jeremy wants to know why. He wants to understand what Simon could possibly have been thinking.

“I never felt like that with Annabelle, I wanted- I panicked again.” There’s fear in Simon’s eyes again now. He’s pleading silently. He needs to explain, he needs to keep going. He swallows a lump in his throat.

“I thought maybe if we- If Annabelle and I-” Simon flounders and stops. Jeremy’s face is tight, brittle. He’s looking down, not looking at Simon. He looks angry about something. Suddenly a switch flicks in Simon’s head.

“No,” he blurts, louder now. Horror and certainty flooding his face. He needs Jeremy to look at him. He sees the furious hurt through the cracks of the other boy’s blank mask. “No, but we didn’t!” His heart is pounding. Jeremy still thinks- His heart feels like it’s in a vice. The words are tumbling out in a rush.

“I thought I’d feel something if Annabelle and I had sex, but I couldn’t go through with it! I couldn’t do it!” Simon is desperate again, eyes frantic. He needs Jeremy to believe him. “And I hadn’t. When you asked. We hadn’t! But I needed you to stop. I just needed you to stop!”

He should stay quiet now. He’s said so much. But it’s like a damn has burst in Simon’s head. He can’t hold it back anymore.

“I- I can’t!” He’s sobbing and he still can’t stop. “I needed you to stop because I _can’t_ Jeremy. I can’t stop! I wanted to stop, but I wanted- God, I _want_ -”

Jeremy can’t breathe. He can’t recalibrate fast enough. Simon has trailed off. Silent heaving sobs rack through his body. Simon hadn’t. Simon and Annabelle hadn’t. The relief is sickening. He doesn’t know what to do. Simon is shaking in front of him. He could reach out and touch him. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t dare. The pinprick of hope is too delicate. He wants to pull Simon to him, drag him into a hug, but he can’t.

The ache of unshed tears settles familiar behind his eyes. He wants to laugh. He feels like he could scream.

He forces himself to move. Simon’s breathing hitches again and again. The tiny spark of warmth in his chest flares and aches. He slips to kneel on the floor by the other boy’s feet. Simon looks up at him tentatively, like he can scarcely bear to look at him.

Impossibly slowly Jeremy lifts his hand toward Simon. Gradually he reaches out, almost like Simon were a spooked animal. Simon eyes his hand like he’s never seen one before. Jeremy feels a strange sense of déjà vu. It’s oddly reminiscent of that first rehearsal, Simon hesitating at the direction to put his hand on Jeremy’s knee.

He touches Simon’s hand gently. The brush of skin is almost electric, and Simon stares at the tiny contact. And then, like he’s moving in slow motion, his hand turns. His fingers are warm as they curl around Jeremy’s.

Jeremy can see that tiny pinprick of hope reflected in Simon’s eyes. He’s stopped shaking. His breathing starts to steady. He barely dares to breathe in case it breaks this. And then a tiny smile starts to dawn on Simon’s face. The air is suddenly clearer, fresher in his lungs. The dark room is lighter, warmer.

Damn, he breathes. He’s so totally fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am supposed to be packing but I just couldn't do anything until this story was done. Coming out is so damn personal, and I've added a fair bit of my own experiences. It's bittersweet and I know people want them to get together already, but they need to do this one step at a time or it will be a disaster.
> 
> Hopefully you enjoyed, and if you did let me know!


	6. Go big or go home

“Oh,” the sound echoes, high and loud in the soft silence. Jeremy nearly jumps out of his skin. Simon’s hand is gone from his.

“Hey, sorry, I didn’t realise you guys were rehearsing in here.” Annabelle seems to loom over them both in the small space of the greenroom. If the characteristic brightness that is Annabelle seems dimmed, Simon is almost translucent. He seems paralysed. Slumped over on the sofa, eyes rimmed with pink, Jeremy wants to leap to his defence. He pushes to his feet slowly.

She’s smiling, but there’s something in the way Annabelle is standing that screams discomfort. She hovers slightly by the door.

It’s awkward. The air creeps with apprehension.

They haven’t spoken about it, Jeremy realises with an uneasy clarity. The tiny glimmer of hope flickers, unsettled.

Simon has re-set his face. There are chinks in his armour, but he’s not sure he wants to fill them right now. He’s not ready to let go of the warmth of Jeremy’s presence.

 He smiles weakly at the soft, uncertain face of the girl he had been dating. Simon has been dreading facing Annabelle. It had hung over him, dark and impenetrable. Full of guilt and shame and despair. How could he possibly explain? How could he possibly tell her the things that he can barely admit to himself? But right now it feels right, it feels necessary.

The ebb of courage he had managed to summon to face Jeremy is still there, thrumming through his veins. If anything it feels strengthened by the gentle touch, the soft smiles. There’s a kind of relief, like a pressure valve let open.

There’s a solid determination in his chest and it feels like he’s drawing on a strength that is not his own as he stands. He doesn’t force his expression neutral, he doesn’t square his shoulders.

Jeremy glances back at him, a troubled look on his face. Simon lets the corner of his mouth curl in what he hopes is reassurance. There’s a tiny thrill in his chest of something he can’t examine just yet. With a certainty he hasn’t felt since he told Mr Mazzouchelli not to cut Hanschen’s scene from the play, Simon looks Annabelle straight in the eye.

“Hi,” his voice wavers slightly. He knows it’s still wet from crying. But it’s okay.

Annabelle is holding something back. She’s waiting for something, he thinks. She doesn’t smile.

“Can- Uh-” He knows what he needs to do. But not here. He hesitates. “Annabelle, can we talk?”

She looks at him, and then nods at the flattened carpet. Simon looks at Jeremy. The other guy is clearly uncomfortable and Simon feels an urge to reassure him.

“Jeremy, I’ll- I’ll see you tomorrow?” It escapes as a question. Simon can see Jeremy searching his face anxiously. Then he smiles. It’s cautious, and it’s small, but it lights up the air around them. It makes Simon think of a sunrise. He wants to just bask in the glow of it, let it into his skin. Jeremy turns and leaves with a tiny wave, and the room seems to drop a couple of degrees. The space is small and stifling with out him, and Annabelle is right there.

The air is pregnant with questions and Simon takes a steadying breath. He’s doing this, but not here.

“Can we talk at the diner? Lillete’s not working tonight…”He pre-empts. Annabelle is still watching him like he might still run away from the conversation, but she agrees, red hair flicking gently as she nods.

She’s wearing her favourite white and black sweater and she tugs at the sleeves awkwardly as they stand there.

“Okay…” she starts to move toward the door. Simon takes one last breath and follows, murmuring a prayer under his breath, leaning on that feeling of rightness. It’s not going to be easy, but it’s right.

 

* * *

 

 

The walk to the diner happens in silence. Just the trudge of their feet on the pavement and the soft buzz of streetlamps overhead. Annabelle fishes out her phone from a pocket to text her mum that she was getting food out, but otherwise she just keeps staring straight ahead.

Then all too soon, they’re sat across from each other in a booth. It's just a touch too warm inside, and the pleather seats squeak slightly in protest as they both fidget in their seats.

The smell of frying turns Simon's stomach slightly. He's knows he's stalling but his mouth is dry and he holds back from speaking, examining the tattered, laminated list of food as if something new might have appeared to surprise him. The silence seems too much for Annabelle. She puts down her menu.

“So, we’re here…” she says, restless. She crosses her arms defensively. “And you wanted to talk?”

Simon nods. She stares right back at him. He knows what he needs to do, but now he’s here he realises he doesn’t know how to approach the topic.

“Friday,” he blurts before the silence can stretch out too long. “Uh- We need to talk about Friday.”

Damn, this was painful. She sighs. There’s something hurt in her expression. She doesn’t say anything, just looks at him expectantly. It’s so unlike Annabelle and it makes it all the more difficult.

“It really, really wasn’t you. I-” he starts.

“No?” Annabelle cuts in with a stage whisper, eyes glinting, sharp in the low light. “What was it then? Because I don’t understand, you suggested it! And then suddenly you weren’t interested!”

“I-” Simon tries, but a flood gate has been opened.

“Guys don’t turn down sex for no reason, Simon! And everyone knows that ‘can we talk’ is code for ‘we’re breaking up’!” her voice is rising above the buzz of chatter and music now. Simon feels like a deer caught in the headlights. “Did I do something wrong? Am I really that unattractive?”

“Annabelle, stop!” Simon is slightly surprised to hear his own voice. There’s a momentary lull of sound and he winces. But he has her attention. Annabelle’s eyes glitter furiously across the table. She’s holding back tears. He needs to get this right.

“Annabelle, I- I’m sorry.” He fidgets under the table. “I really didn’t mean for this to happen. It's not you! You're pretty and kind and funny and smart. It’s really, really not you!”

Annabelle scowls at the cracked varnish of the table. There's a hint of a tremble in her lip.

“Then why are you breaking up with me? Why wouldn’t you have sex with me? Why- Why would you do this? I deserve to know!” She sniffs. The fury is wearing thin. She’s vulnerable here too.

“I thought- I- I thought I could- I don’t know how to explain!” he trips over his words, but Simon wants to tell her. He’s tired of hiding, tired of holding it all in. “I thought I could make it work, Annabelle!

"I thought maybe if I just tried harder- If I could just-” He’s not sure how much sense he’s making, but he wants it out. He wants to be honest, damnit! He rambles on blindly. “There was the play and Jeremy… And I thought if I dated you then maybe it would all be okay! But then Jeremy kissed me and I-”

“I thought you guys hadn’t done the full kiss yet?” Her voice is strange, brittle. There’s a new expression on her face that he can’t name.  There's a beat of silence and his heart stops. Does he tell her?

“We-” Simon can’t breathe. He needs to tell her the truth. “We haven’t. He, uh- We, um-” The kiss with Jeremy feels private. Annabelle looks far away.

“So, Jeremy and I kissed,” he pushes on. The words are so alien, but it feels right to say them. It’s the next part that he doesn’t want to admit to. “And I panicked and I thought, maybe-“

“I should have known!” Annabelle exclaims suddenly. Simon is caught off guard. “I saw you on stage with him. I made a joke about it! Oh my god- I’m such an idiot!”

He had almost imagined this conversation was going to be like confession. He was going to lay out all of his sins and then she was going to respond, likely hurt and probably angry. It’s oddly anticlimactic for her to jump ahead. He’s slow to respond and she rounds on him.

“Why me?” she demands. Simon feels at sea. Somehow he’s forgotten to factor her in again. He feels a lurch of shame, but he’s resolved to be honest this time.

“You liked me.” His voice is small. It’s the truth. Shame eats at him. He chose her because it was convenient, and she was nice. It’s not enough though, she’s not done.

“Do I look like a man, Simon? Why me?” she implores again. She’s so hurt and it’s all his fault and he needs to fix this.

“No! Annabelle. You- You were there. And you liked me. And you’re great! You’re all the things I should want!” That’s the crux of it though, isn’t it? She’s everything he should want. But he doesn’t.

“So you don’t think I look like a man?” Annabelle can’t even seem to look at him. She picks at her nail polish.

“I’ve been really confused and messed up in my head, okay? But I dated you because you were all the things I thought my parents would want in a future wife. And-” Simon can’t help but huff out a hysterical laugh. “And believe me, that is absolutely, categorically, not a man! It’s _really_ the opposite.

“I’ve been selfish and a coward and I hurt you. And I really am sorry for all of that. But I couldn’t keep lying. Lying to myself, lying to you, lying to Jeremy-” Simon trails off. The ball’s in her court now. She pauses. For a second he thinks she’s going to say something else, but then she nods.

She stands up. They haven’t ordered anything. Simon wonders if the argument had just repelled any approaching waitstaff, or if they had been forgotten.

“I’m going to go,” she says simply.

“Please don’t tell anyone.” The words are out of his mouth before he can think. She snorts derisively.

“Don’t worry Simon, I have no plans to scream from any rooftops that my boyfriend turned out to be gay.” Annabelle spits the word out and Simon feels like she’s slapped him. He wants to disappear. He wants to curl up and hide. He almost follows her out, but his legs feel weak, like they might not support him. Exhaustion threatens to overwhelm him.

He has his head in his hands when the waitress comes to take his order. She smiles sympathetically, fine crinkles forming around her eyes. Simon is starving, but nothing sounds particularly appetising. He just asks for fries.

“Break ups suck, huh?” she says with a sense of comradery. “Chin up kid, it gets better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a little shorter and still angsty, but apparently I have a life that I'm supposed to live outside fanfiction and Rise. Plus it's been so nice and sunny here in the UK this weekend!
> 
> But I'm not done with my ideas of how this whole scenario might play out so I might try to get some more written before the episode airs tomorrow... We shall see!
> 
> Let me know what you think in kudos and/or comments, and have a lovely whatever time it is where you are!


	7. Deja Vu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I know my version now doesn't quite line up with the canon. But I'm going to stick with it. I may go back and neaten it up to make it fit better later, but for now I shall continue. So The Conversation may sorta happen twice. Apologies!
> 
> I'm pretty sure it will make sense anyway though.
> 
> I have tried, but please ignore/ tell me about any strange Britishisms because usually to me an 'ass' is a kind of donkey, which is rather different to an 'arse'!

The next day doesn’t start well.

The first time Simon wakes up it’s still dark. He blearily searches for the red numbers of his alarm clock. But it’s 4am. He tries to think what might have woken him, but his brain won’t cooperate, thoughts slipping away out of his grasp.

And then he’s not sure what time it is. It’s just really dark. He can’t see anything, but he’s being watched. He can feel it, feel eyes watching him. Everything in him is screaming at him to run, to hide. But he can’t move. He can’t move a muscle. Hundreds of eyes are watching him. Brown eyes, blue eyes, red eyes. And they scream.

Simon lurches forward. His bedroom walls are unexpectedly close. Light creeps through the edges of the blind, grey and cold. He shivers, his pyjama top is damp with sweat. A crow screeches again outside the window, harsh sound echoing in his head.

He still feels disoriented. His chest is tight with nerves, head fuzzy. His mouth is dry. A dull throb of pain pulses behind his eyes. He can’t really remember details of the dream, but he still feels on edge.

He’s tired. He doesn’t feel rested, he feels drained. His eyes are heavy. But his stomach growls and burns, his bladder complains, his feet tingle with restless anxiety. He has to move.

His limbs are sluggish as he forces himself to wash, to get dressed, to get on with the day. He checks his phone absentmindedly as he heads downstairs for breakfast. No new messages.

It doesn’t register as strange that his dad’s voice is coming from the kitchen until he walks through the doorway. He’s readying himself for an argument, or awkward silence.

But Robert Saunders calls out in greeting. His tone is bright. For a mad fraction of a second Simon wonders if he’s come around to the play. But the memories of the past few days wash over him like freezing cold water.

His dad just sits there smiling and laughing with Emma, suit neatly ironed and not a hair out of place. It feels wrong that he looks so unaffected. It all feels surreal.

The kitchen is full of the smell of breakfast and he feels a bizarre sense of déjà vu.

“French toast this morning!” his mum says with a smile. Her face is perfectly made up. She’s wearing perfume and it floats in the air.

“Great,” he breathes in disbeleif, half to himself. He watches as she sits down at the table as if nothing has happened. She smiles, and touches her husbands arm as he teases Emma.

It’s so fake. It all feels wrong. 

* * *

 He’s still uneasy when he arrives at school. Everything is the same as usual but it feels strange. He feels strange. It’s like he’s holding his breath.

He can’t concentrate in biology, he doodles through Spanish and finds himself staring blankly at his unimpressed history teacher. Her eyebrows are raised as she looks at him expectantly, but he doesn’t even have his textbook open. She sighs and asks him to stay behind at the end of class before moving on.

The bell for lunch nearly makes him jump out of his skin. Simon looks around as the other students shovel their belonging into bags, chairs scraping on linoleum. He gathers his things slowly, fixing his gaze on the carved graffiti of the desk.

Mrs Taylor is in her 60s. She had seemingly been at the school forever, having taught many of her current students’ parents. She’s fair but strict, sharp eyes catching the first hint of a whisper and shutting it down immediately. Even at Church on Sundays, her steel grey hair is pulled back tightly to order. Most of the school, including the other teachers, share a slightly fearful respect for her.

She beckons him over to her desk and stares him down. Simon stays quiet and looks at the floor.

“Mr Saunders,” she says sharply. He looks up and immediately feels like he’s under a microscope in front of her. She smiles tightly. “I taught your father, you know. You really are remarkably alike.”

Her voice is clipped and calculating. She watches him for a reaction, but Simon isn’t sure how to respond. She nods, as if she knows something he doesn’t. She looks like she might continue, but then she sighs. The lines of her face seem to deepen, the ferocity in her eyes turned down just a notch.

“Good luck with the play.” It’s final, it’s a dismissal. She turns to gather up pieces of paper as if he has already left. Simon is left to flounder in uncomfortable silence.

He can’t find anyone from the troupe at lunch. He sits on his own. The sun shines harsh, light doing nothing to alleviate the growing twitchiness in his gut.

The whole situation with his parents is a mess. The situation with Annabelle is a mess. The situation with Jeremy still a mess. Pretending that everything is fine has just made everything worse. Why can’t his parents see that?

He makes it through the afternoon but it drags on seemingly endlessly. The only thing keeping him going is the thought of the run through in rehearsal. If Spring Awakening is anything it’s honest, brutally so. 

* * *

 The atmosphere is electric. First dress rehearsals always are. For the first time all day, Simon feels like he can breathe. Here he can relax. Ironically, the theatre is the place where he least has to act.

He can’t help but notice Jeremy. His stomach does a little flutter when he sees the guy in his costume, jacket smart and a little fitted. Jeremy smiles back and Simon is ready to face the world, PTA petition and all.

The stage buzzes with excitement as everyone gathers together. But Ms Wolfe is fidgeting.

“Actually, there’s been a slight- slight change of plans, uh-“ Mr Mazzouchelli stumbles over his words. His usual contagious enthusiasm is missing. Simon can feel it coming before it’s said and the world is off kilter again.

“There are some changes… we need to make to the show.” Changes _,_ Simon thinks to himself, disbelief bubbling up under the surface. How can they change the show? Mr Mazzou starts talking about not cutting scenes or songs, and Simon’s stomach drops. The irritation that has been brewing all day fuels his tongue.

“Can you be more specific? Like, what kind of changes?” he manages to keep his voice level somehow. Every muscle in his body is screaming at him to relax. He feels stretched out, like an elastic band, like he might ping off or snap.

The troupe shuffles with wry disappointed laughter as Jolene suggests singing Totally Fricked. Simon can’t laugh, he’s frozen in place, simmering with frustration.

“Yeah, we will come up with the best substitute…” Mr Mazzou pulls everyone’s attention back. “Now there will be other-” He pauses.

“Censorship?” Simon snaps out. His heart is racing. How could they do this? The show is about the truth, they can’t just rip that up!

“Tweaks,” Mazzou corrects firmly. No one is really convinced. 

* * *

The evening is spent stopping and starting. Simon stands in the wings gritting his teeth as everything raw and true is leached out, scene by scene. It’s pretty soul destroying.

5 or 6 versions of Totally Censored later and everyone is rolling their eyes. It’s a relief when rehearsal is over.

No one hangs around after practice that night.

Simon goes straight up to his room when he gets home. He’s tired and he really doesn’t want to deal with his parents after that rehearsal. But he also knows he still has homework that can’t wait anymore. He sits at his desk and pulls out a book. He can do this.

Once he gets into the rhythm of it, it’s not so bad. He shuts out everything but the work. It’s methodical, soothing in it’s way. He lets himself be swept away from thoughts of the PTA and the play edits and his parents. It’s just one question after another.

He often sings while he works. The flow of the music helps him stay concentrated on the task at hand. He hums the tune for _Bitch Of Living_ softly, pencil scratching slightly on squared paper. Add that and divide by that. Maths isn’t so bad really. Just patterns and repetition. He finds himself wondering if Jeremy has done these exercises. He smiles to himself and starts their scene in his head. Maybe once the play is done they can study together. There were always more pop quizzes with Mr Kranepool.

He reaches the chorus of the reprise, singing softly. He doesn’t look up as his sister walks into his room. He just needs to concentrate for a second.

“Is- Mum and Dad are getting divorced?” Simon’s head snaps up. She’s leaning on the door, face crumpled.

“What- Woah, why are you saying that?” he asks urgently. Had something else happened?

“They argued. They don’t love each other!” Her voice is high with emotion. Her shoulders shake with a sob, eyes scrunched tight shut.

“Oh, Em- Come on, come here-” He can’t stand seeing her hurt, it tears at his insides. She’s his little sister and he would do anything to protect her. He steadies her in front of him.

“Hey- Hey- It’ll never happen, alright?” he tries. “It’s not possible.” The words sound hollow, even to his own ears. Her hair hangs soft around her face, like a protective shelter between her and the world.

“But it might be!” she insists.

“No, no, no!” he shakes his head, willing her to believe it. Willing himself to believe it. She is right though, it might be possible. He’s not lying to her too, not now. He backtracks. “But if it does, you can always come live with me, alright?”

The thought is a pleasant one, bittersweet in the hurt of the moment. His own space, cosy and bright. His sister safe with him, smiling and laughing as they listen to music together. He smiles.

She sniffs and half-smiles back. It’s wobbly, and wet with tears, but it’s enough.

Simon pulls his sister in to touch noses, like they would do as kids. He feels a rush of real affection for his sister. They’ve always been close, ever since they were little. He hugs her tight and she buries her face in his shoulder, sniffling softly.

“It’ll be okay, we’ll be alright. And I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs softly. He really hopes it will be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually have more written. Which I shouldn't because I should have been working/ sleeping in the time I was writing. But I do.
> 
> I'm going to post more chapter by chapter, purely because that way it's a little more staggered and if I do get busy, there's a bit of a backlog I can still post.
> 
> Coming up next: Simon confronts his dad; the show is censored further; The Conversation happens a la canon; And Simon and Jeremy flirt awkwardly like the teenagers they are.
> 
> Send me kudos/ comments if you enjoy, or tell me how to improve if that's your jam!


	8. Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another chapter!
> 
> Beware the Britishisms. Let me know if there are any irregularities, or if you enjoy.

It takes a while, but Emma slowly calms down. The sobs subside. They sit for a bit, talking about not too much. Emma’s class at school, the new fluffy dog down the street. Simon’s homework has been abandoned but he can’t face going back to it now. He’ll have to finish it at lunch tomorrow.

For now he needs to go and talk to his dad.

It’s one of those things about being the eldest. It would be unthinkable that he would face his father about that argument for himself. But for Emma he would. Of the few arguments he has had with his parents, the most heated have always revolved around defending her.

Heart in his throat Simon knocks. The living room lights are low. He can hear his dad’s voice, low and soft, praying quietly with his rosary. His dad seems surprised to see him there and doubt flickers in his mind. The soothing peace of the space is so at odds with the uneasy stir of his gut and he hesitates, hovering in the hallway.

“It’s okay. Come in, close the door,” Robert Saunders calls. “Everything okay?”

Simon does as he’s asked. He feels like he might float away. His heart is beating out of his chest. The living room is unnaturally quiet. It feels like all the air is being forced out of his lungs.

“Yeah, uh-” he starts. He wants to cross his arms - partly defensive, partly self comforting. He tucks his hands into his pockets instead. He doesn’t want this to turn into a fight. “Emma and I- heard you and mum arguing the other day.”

Simon watches the words land. There’s a calculation going on in his dad’s head, but his eyes stay neutral.

“I see,” the man says. He’s formulating something in his head, but Simon needs to finish. He’s here for his sister.

“Emma’s upset,” Simon emphasises. There’s a beat.

“I’ll talk to her.” His dad stands up, and Simon nods. He’s done what he came to do. It’s a little stilted, a little awkward, but he’s done. His dad will talk to Emma, comfort her, make sure she’s okay. He shifts to let his dad pass.

“What about you?” The question takes him by surprise somehow. He came to talk about Emma, not to talk about the swirling mess of emotions he’s feeling. “Are you upset?”

But he can’t see concern in his dad’s eyes. His dad’s face is just empty, like a shop mannequin. It almost feels like a challenge rather than a question. It’s unsettling. Simon shakes his head incredulously. It feels like some kind of bizarre game of chess. But he doesn’t want to play. He isn’t going to pretend.

“Of course I am,” he breathes. This is his dad, these are his parents! Now that he’s released it, the quiet ache in his chest flares. He can’t get the echo of Emma’s fears out of his head. He falters, trying to search his dad’s face. “I- I- I mean- what you and mum said- Are- Are you guys getting a divorce?”

All of the confusion and all of the hurt and the fear is perched, just there behind Simon’s ribs. He’s sixteen, but he feels younger.

His dad just chuckles softly, and shakes his head.

“Never.” The word sits there in the air. It feels wrong. It’s put on. Robert Saunders is just dismissing the whole thing. Simon feels his skin crawl. How can he possibly do that? Just put on that smile and pretend it’s all okay? Suddenly the room feels colder. There’s a foul taste in his mouth.

“Why?” Simon blurts out angrily. Why not? His dad’s face flashes surprise. But Simon reigns back the irritation. Discussion, not argument. “I mean, if what mum said is true – that you guy’s don’t-” He sucks in a breath. No, actually, he doesn’t want to think about his parents having sex. He’s not going to push that far.

“That your marriage- isn’t real,” he corrects. “How could you possibly stay together?”

Simon doesn’t want to be arguing that his parents should break up. The idea tugs deep and painful at his chest. But it just feels so wrong, so impossible, so bizarre. Why? How? Frustration and hurt bubbles up uninvited.

“How can we all just go on- And- and eat breakfast. And play cards. And pretend to be this real family when it’s all based on a lie?” It’s just a lie. Everything is a lie! Nothing is okay with that!

“Simon,” his dad says firmly. His voice is steady, calm, measured. “Sit down.”

He almost argues, but he does as he’s told. He wants to hear the answer. He wants, needs to understand.

“Real life-” his dad sighs. “It’s not like the movies- Or one of your plays. That’s not real.”

Robert Saunders’ face is set in neutral honesty. He sounds tired. It’s a cliché and Simon feels the urge to roll his eyes. Really?

“What’s real is us, our family,” he continues. Incredulity blooms in Simon’s chest. This is real? Seriously?

“I’ve made-” his dad pauses. “Compromises. For our family.”

Simon feels sick. Compromises. A fake marriage, sobbing wife, life of pretend. He tries to keep the horror off his face, but inside he wants to scream.

“This family is more important to me than anything else in my life.” The statement is said quietly. Simon knows his dad believes in what he’s saying, but the world feels like it’s slipping off it’s axis. His dad studies him in silence.

“Someday you may find yourself in a- similar situation.” Simon feels his insides plummet, ripped away. He doesn’t dare to breathe. It’s so quiet. He can hear the real meaning behind the words and it hurts him like nothing else his dad has said.

Robert Saunders looks at his son with a detached sympathy. Simon doesn’t know what to say. He wants to cry.

“Pray with me son?” His dad says. He doesn’t dare to speak, his throat is choked, his eyes prickling with the treat of tears. He numbly lowers his head and tries not to let them fall.

* * *

 

Simon doesn’t dream that night. He just drifts in and out of black sleep. Angry tears fall silently down his cheeks. It’s not fair.

The school day is over in a whirl of fury and pain. He doesn’t have the energy to daydream. He’s not even there. Not really.

Even rehearsal can’t break him out of his dark mood.

He can feel it thrumming through him, churning hot in his stomach. He throws himself into _Bitch of Living_. He can feel every beat and he lets his eyes burn with it. It’s almost too real, but it feels good to scream out the words.

_Just the bitch of living,  
As someone you can’t stand._

He wants to just keep screaming. He can’t stand holding this in anymore. All the expectations, and the pretending. All the lies. It’s eating him away from the inside. And his dad wants him to just keep pretending. Just keep pretending. Until he’s got a fake family of his own, until his wife is sobbing and he just watches her, face dead, until he’s telling his own horrified son that this is just the way it is. The idea of it makes him want to break down. He wants to tear everything apart.

And then Mr Mazzouchelli comes in with more tweaks. He’s just stood there with his clipboard, glasses perched on his nose. Destroying the play like there is nothing he can do. Simon’s face twists into a grimace.

“Sensing this is bad, really?” he exclaims incredulously.

But it doesn’t stop. They’re cutting a verse. Francis’ solo. The injustice of it stabs into him. And suddenly Simon can’t hold it back anymore.

“Wh- What? That’s not fair!” he’s saying. “Francis is great in that moment!”

Francis tries to defer, to hide the disappointment on his face. But this is not even about him really.

“No!” It comes out as more of a squeak, loud and echoing in the large space of the auditorium. “It’s not okay! Francis has been working his ass of for three months. It’s one of his biggest moments in the whole show – you can’t just take it away!”

He knows he’s shouting now. He can feel the eyes on him from all sides. The troupe are watching him in silence, Ms Wolfe is trying placate him, calm him down. But he’s so, so far beyond that now.

“Look, we understand that this is frustrating,” Mazzou says. Voice full of the same false calm that Simon’s dad had used the night before. He doesn’t understand. “Sometimes in life- you have to make-”

“Compromises, huh?” Simon snaps, harsh and loud. “Yeah, I know.”

His anger isn’t hot anymore, it’s icy cold. He’s furious. The words rip out through him like knives.

“We believed. I- In what you were trying to do.” He’s gesticulating wildly, articulating every syllable. “We showed up. Stayed late. We gave it our all. We _trusted_ you!

“I trusted you!” he yells. Tears are coming, he can feel it. He swallows around the wetness in his throat and fights on.

“And my family is _falling apart_ right now!” His voice is starting to crack, but he’s not backing down. He can’t. “Because of _this_ show. Because of _my_ part! But I did it because I _thought_ it meant something.

“I thought it was important,” Simon’s face is screwed up in pain.

“But now, you’re like; ‘nah, never mind. Let’s not do it!’

“And it’s like, why do the scene, if we can’t do the scene! Just cut it!” he snarls. His chest is heaving. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so angry in his life. The teachers just look at him, distant pity in their eyes. Just like his dad.

“Simon,” Mr Mazzouchelli tries.

“Just cut the whole stupid thing!” Simon screams. He flings down the microphone. It crashes and bounces. He needs to leave, he needs to get out of this stupid place with it’s stupid censorship and its stupid expectations. He needs to go. Now.

He storms out of the theatre, out of the school - straight to his car. Steps in and slams the door. He just needs to get away, just needs to be somewhere else.

He doesn’t let the tears fall, just blinks his vision clear and drives. He drives and drives. Around town. Out to the Steel Mill where fear almost let him do things he would regret with Annabelle. Past his Church and everything his father was hiding behind, twisting to his purposes. It starts to get dark and he just switches on his headlights and keeps driving.

He’s driving in circles but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to go home to dinner. He doesn’t want to sit around a table with his parents as they pretend everything is okay. As they laugh and joke as if it’s not all a lie, a sham. As they watch him and expect him to play along, to follow in their miserable footsteps.

He can't. He just can't.

Eventually though, he has to go back. He’s tired and he’s hungry, and he has school and final rehearsals tomorrow. He might hate the censored play, but he can’t let the troupe down. Not now. He can’t let the PTA win like that.

He slams the front door in a gesture of petty defiance and makes a break for his room. He doesn’t want to check if there’s anyone in the kitchen, doesn’t want to risk it. So he just changes and lies down for bed in the dark, forcibly ignoring the growling of his empty stomach. He doesn’t let himself think about tomorrow, just closes his eyes and lets go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo we are still in a giant pile of angst BUT we are moving forwards. I'm hoping to write some non-angsty chapters very very soon!
> 
> Coming up next: The Conversation a la canon AND possibly even some Siremy flirting!


	9. Early Admissions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourselves - it's finally another scene with both Simon and Jeremy! And one that isn't entirely angst! It must be a miracle!

Simon sets his alarms early. He wakes up at 5am and drags himself into the shower with a grim determination. He is not going to still be home to face his parents at breakfast. He leaves the house at 6 and drives to school.

The roads are oddly quiet. Very few cars are out at this time. He doesn’t switch on the radio. Just lets the whir of the engines fill his head. The solid warmth of the steering wheel is reassuring in his hands. He opens the window a crack and lets the breeze carry away the musty smell of hot plastic and fill the car with fresh cold air. Despite the lack of sleep, his head feels clear.

He sits in the empty parking lot for a while, examining the school buildings like he’s never seen them before. Boxy brickwork seeming oddly alien in the early morning without the stir of students.

Just after 7 the janitor arrives in his battered truck, denim flapping in the wind as he unlocks the front doors and slips inside. Simon waits a little longer, until the first teachers trickle into the lot. He watches numbly as they struggle under piles of books and papers.

He walks into the school like he’s in a strange dream. The corridors loom oddly without students. He lets his feet carry him to the drama department. He can sit there and wait for the bell to ring.

His copy of spring awakening is tucked into his bag and he pulls it out.

He remembers the first time he had read it, intrigue and concern mingling and tugging him through the story. He opens the script and starts to read. He misses this version. No edits, no tweaks, no censoring. Just raw, powerful truth. He gets lost in the words.

He’s not expecting to see Jeremy when a shadow moves in his periphery. The sight of him makes his chest ache. They still haven’t spoken about the other day, and on top of the revelations from Simon’s dad and the changes to the play, Simon just feels overwhelmed.

Jeremy walks over slowly and drags around a chair. He looks good. The thought registers vaguely in Simon’s mind. The dark grey flannel suits him, sleeves casually rolled up. Green-grey chinos fitting him nicely. His eyes are friendly as he takes a seat right there.

Simon is too tired to fight his own thoughts or the soft flutter of nerves in his abdomen, but he tugs his eyes back to the book in his hand.

Jeremy watches him. The defeat in his face, the shadows under his eyes.

“I’m just uh- I’m just reading this again,” Simon breaks the silence. There’s a weary truce in his voice, but he keeps looking at the page in front of him. “It’s so beautiful.”

Jeremy shifts in his chair.

“Are you okay?” The question is gentle, but it hits something painful inside Simon. “I mean, you got so upset at rehearsal…” Jeremy huffs out a gentle laugh. That rehearsal had been something else. Simon had snapped at him a few times, but never like that. It had been impressive, Simon’s belief in the play and what it stood for. Standing up for that and standing up to Mazzou was brave.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Simon hears himself say, voice flat. He holds his gaze down. He daren’t make eye contact.

Jeremy falters at the empty response, at Simon pushing him away again. But he knows Simon is hurting. It’s there on his face. It had been there in his voice and in his eyes yesterday, and there in the green room on Monday. Jeremy knows there’s something wrong, and he also knows that he’s tied in there somehow. The play, the flirting, the kiss. Everything that he is sure Simon has felt. He’s not ready to give up that easily.

“What you said about- your family- falling apart- what did you-” he starts, but Simon cuts him off.

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to say that,” Simon mumbles in a monotone, still staring down. His face isn’t guarded. It’s just raw, open and blank. “That was- I was just-”

Jeremy wants to know, but he isn’t going to push. He cares, but he can’t flay himself open if Simon doesn’t want him.

“Sure,” he hesitates. “You uh- You don’t have to talk about it.” It still hurts a little, being shoved away. Simon is hurting, and he wants to help, he wants to try. But he also understands needing space. He looks down, uncertain. He wants to put a hand on Simon’s shoulder, wants to try to reduce just a little of the hurt in the dark brown eyes refusing to look at him. But he doesn’t want to make it worse. He swallows.

Simon’s chest hurts. Part of him wants to hide behind this thin shell of control. He wants to keep playing along for just a little bit longer. He wants to hide from his problems and lie and say it’s all okay. But he also wants to be honest. He’s tired. He wants to let it all out.

And he cares about Jeremy. He doesn’t want to hurt the other boy. Not again. He wants their fragile truce of soft smiles and glances to last. He wants to spend time with him, wants to learn what is going on in the depths of the eyes he keeps getting lost in. He’s desperate to feel the soft warmth of Jeremy’s hand in his again, the gentle tingle under his skin when they are close.

Simon sighs and lifts his head. His mouth is dry.

“My- My family is uh-” How can he possibly explain his family? “Very-” he tries again. He huffs a laugh, he knows how to explain it.

“Catholic.” The word rolls off his tongue. It’s fond and it’s bitter. It covers a lot. He smiles and looks down.

“And they don’t like me playing- Hanschen. You know? They don’t approve of- Uh-” He almost says they don’t approve of gay people, and he hears how it sounds in his head. He can feel Jeremy’s eyes on him.

“You know- Uh- Homosexuality,” Saying it out loud hurts even more than just knowing it. His parents don’t approve of homosexuality. His parents don’t approve of people like Jeremy, even though they don’t know any. His parents don’t approve of people like him. He takes a breath and keeps talking.

“They don’t approve of a lot of this, actually.” Simon waves the play. He scoffs. God, it feels so ridiculous. Jeremy stays quiet, listening. Letting Simon speak, low and tired and exasperated. But honest.

“I feel like- there’s this bomb inside me.” Simon’s voice shakes slightly, words strained. “And ever since we started this show, I have these feelings, and- I feel like, if I ever opened up to them, it would just blow up my family.” Simon puffs out a breath, eyes shining with unshed tears.

“And they’re my family, you know?” Simon looks Jeremy in the eye for the first time since he sat down, and Jeremy feels his heart rip open at the pain in his face. The look in his eyes is pure despair.

“I love them,” Simon whispers. He exhales sharply. He doesn’t want to cry here, and the hurt isn’t sharp, it’s dull. He slumps back into the sofa. He feels drained, hollowed out. He doesn’t have anything more to give right now.

Jeremy doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. He can’t say it’s going to be okay. His chest aches with the memory of that all-enveloping fear. He stares at his hands and just sits. He sits and hopes that maybe it can help that Simon isn’t here all on his own.

Simon had thought that maybe, once he had his answer, Jeremy would go. But he stays. The silence is thick with hurt and fear, but Jeremy stays, sat in silence.

It’s not a comfortable silence, but Jeremy’s presence makes it bearable. It’s like he’s lending Simon strength from the still curve of his spine.

Simon’s hand on the arm of the sofa itches to reach out to Jeremy. But he doesn’t dare. He doesn’t dare shatter this fragile feeling of okayness.

In the distance the first bell chimes. But Jeremy doesn’t stir until Simon does. Simon stretches stiffly, trying to shake movement back into his tired limbs.

Jeremy stands silently. Hands fidgeting with the strap of his rucksack, he waits.

He’s half waiting for Simon to snap a mask of indifference back on. To snap at him not to say anything about this conversation. But he doesn’t. Simon just shoves his script into his bag and heaves it over his shoulder. His eyes are tired and he runs a hand through his hair. He nods at Jeremy slightly, looking self-conscious.

“Uh- Thanks,” he mutters softly, a frightened gratitude in his eyes. It’s not what Jeremy is expecting.

“What- Huh?” he stumbles, mentally. What does Simon mean? Thanks for what? For not outing him? Simon is looking at the linoleum floor again, mind ticking something over. A resolve seems to solidify in liquid-brown eyes, and his spine straightens visibly.

“For- For not- pretending everything’s okay,” he says slowly. “For being honest with me even when I-” he cuts off to take another breath and looks Jeremy straight in the eye. “Even when I was being a real asshole.”

There’s a wry smile on Simon’s face, it lights up his pale face, dancing in his eyes. The whole corridor feels brighter. Jeremy grins, eyebrows high, eyes wide and delighted.

“I mean, you really were an asshole…” he ribs at Simon with a soft smile as they move to head to class. Despite himself Simon laughs, the sound free and loud in the quiet passage. Without thinking he bumps his shoulder against Jeremy’s in retort. The other guy’s arm is warm and solid through his shirt. It does something to Simon’s gut and he feels his face pink slightly. He glances at the other guy, to find blue eyes watching him in amusement and something like awe. His cheeks heat further, but the smile stays seared into his face anyway.

“Uh- See you at lunch?” Jeremy suggests tentatively. Of course, they have separate classes. Simon is about to agree wholeheartedly, but then his heart sinks. He hesitates and Jeremy’s face falls again. The guy really does wear his heart on his sleeve. Simon shakes his head quickly.

“I just- I have homework. Kranepool-” he stutters out, pleading with Jeremy to understand, to know he’s not just ditching him. His brand new good mood stutters with him.

But then Jeremy smiles, wide and brilliant, face lit up anew.

“Me too!” he grins. “Will you study with me?”

Simon’s heart swoops in his chest. That smile catching him by surprise yet again. It’s like a second chance. He wants to just bask in that smile. He feels a surge of impossible, outlandish courage.

“Math only though, not Achilles and Patroclus,” he smirks and turns away left into the main hallway. He hears the bark of surprised laughter behind him and lets his face grin wider that he thought possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so yes this is the second time we have had the same conversation in this fic, apologies. But I actually really liked the little scene we got in the episode. It was too short obviously, and in my mind, cut off too soon. But it clears the air a little. It gives Simon and Jeremy a little breathing room again.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	10. Second Chances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Rise has been cancelled, and it hurts my soul that we won't get to see more of these kids and their stories, but I'm gonna keep writing.
> 
> This chapter lighter on angst. Huzzah! Hope you all enjoy, but either way, do let me know!

Lunch won’t come fast enough. The smile stays on his face through first period, cheeks starting to ache from it. Lillete looks at him in confusion across the classroom and a hint of nerves swirls in his stomach as he makes a face at her.

“What’s wrong with your face?” she asks him dryly at class change. He snorts at her and she looks at him. “No, seriously, what’s going on with you?” Simon half shrugs.

“I’m an enigma,” he tells her, mock earnestly.

“You’re something,” she retorts, making a face. She looks as tired as he feels. But they have different classes next and have to go in opposite directions. “You’re telling me later!” she calls over her shoulder at him as she walks away, mock stern in response. He sticks out his tongue at her and spins back in the correct direction to head to physics. And then freezes as he spots Jeremy smiling at him across the crowded hall.

“Cute, Simon,” Jeremy teases with a smile. Simon feels his face flush red up to his ears. He watches, still frozen, as Jeremy keeps walking. Those chinos do look good on him. They’re not super tight but-

Simon wrenches his eyes away from Jeremy’s ass, stricken. He takes a step forward uncertainly, as if the rules of gravity might be different. His gaze goes back over his shoulder unbidden but Jeremy has disappeared.

His lungs have stopped. He forces himself to breathe again. Keep walking. Don’t think, don’t panic. Just walk.

He’s the last into the physics classroom. He feels like he’s watching himself move from somewhere else. He sits down at the back of the room and blindly pulls out his books. He feels like he’s underwater.

He takes another breath. In and out. He can do this, he tells himself. But his eyes won’t focus on the board. The image of Jeremy is still seared into his eyelids.

It’s not an entirely new feeling, he admits to himself, the warm rush when he looks at Jeremy. It’s not like he hasn’t noticed it before. Being close to Jeremy does things to his insides. But he’s always crushed the feeling mercilessly. He’s not let himself think about it. It’s always been easier to shove everything down, to ignore it, to pretend it’s not there and hope against hope that it will go away.

But every time he squashes his feelings down it hurts him. And it had hurt Jeremy. And it had hurt Annabelle too.

He’s tired of it. Tired of pretending, of lying. He doesn’t want to keep lying. And he has been lying. To himself, to Jeremy, to everyone.

He can’t ignore it anymore. He needs to face it. Whatever it is.

Tentatively he pokes at the emotions in his head. It feels dangerous, like he’s poking a sleeping bear with a stick. Or a bomb, like he had said to Jeremy just that morning.

Nothing explodes.

He lets out a breath. These are just his thoughts, just his feelings. He’s not screaming them from the rooftops. He doesn’t even have to act on them. He just needs to figure out where he stands, what he feels, what he wants.

Because if he’s really honest, it’s not just the desire to get to know Jeremy, to spend time with Jeremy. It’s wanting to be close to Jeremy, wanting to get lost in Jeremy’s eyes and his smile. It’s the way Simon’s stomach flutters in response to the other boy’s presence, the tingle of his skin when they touch.

He remembers the way it felt to have Jeremy close to him in their scenes and then in the parking lot, to see want mirrored in Jeremy’s eyes. And then Jeremy had kissed him, lips soft on his. It had felt amazing, electric. He had torn himself away, fought every urge to stay. But that had not been what he wanted. He had wanted to pull Jeremy closer, wanted to lean into his touch, wanted more. More closeness, more contact. Just more.

It frightens him.

At the back of his mind a voice sounding suspiciously like his dad’s whispers that this is wrong, that what he’s feeling is wrong, what he’s thinking is wrong.

But it doesn’t feel wrong. It just is. He likes Jeremy. That’s just the truth.

It dawns on him slowly. That even the tiniest spark of what he had felt for Jeremy - even just today, not even touching him - outshone anything he had ever felt for Annabelle. Or any girl.

He lets that idea settle in his head.

He’s attracted to Jeremy, he admits to himself reluctantly. He is attracted to a guy. Physically, romantically attracted to another guy. The idea is heavy, laden with implications and what ifs. But now he admits it, it slots into place in his head like a missing piece of a puzzle. He’s attracted to a _guy_.

He can’t even approach what that means. It’s too big, looming over him. Too many questions, too many worries. He drags himself out of the depths of his head, feeling like he’s coming up gasping for air.

He can’t face that right now. Not now. Not today. He can’t deal with the entire issue of sexuality right now. It’s too much at once.

Then, there’s Jeremy, what he feels for Jeremy. He lets himself separate the two in his head. He shoves away the thought that they are inextricably connected. He drags back control of his lungs.

What he feels for Jeremy –  it’s new and it’s frightening, yes, and it’s mired in fear and self-doubt. But it feels good. It feels fresh and honest and right. He cares about Jeremy, he admires Jeremy, he wants to get to know Jeremy. Can _those_ feelings really be that bad?

Simon is still lost his thoughts when the bell rings for lunch, as he absentmindedly packs his unused books back into his bag. He heads to his locker mindlessly.

Lillete greets him with a wave and turns back to keep talking to someone else. And there is Jeremy. Simon stops breathing.

His hands are in his pockets, worried frown on his face, staring down at the floor. He’s nodding at something Lillete is saying and a half-smile crosses his face, but he looks uncomfortable, unsure. He’s still gorgeous.

Simon is hyperaware of how his eyes skim the guy’s body as he walks over. He doesn’t stop them. It feels good not to fight it.

“Everything okay?” he breathes, hoping his face doesn’t give too much away and embarrass him. Jeremy looks up startled, apparently he had been miles away.

“Hi,” he squeaks and clears his throat. “Uh- hi-”

Jeremy shifts from one foot to another, studying Simon’s face. He smiles nervously. It’s endearing, Simon muses. Jeremy’s eyes flick back to Lillete.

Her face is lit up with a smile, seemingly unaware of the question in Jeremy’s eyes.

“Hey Simon,” she greets him. “So are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do I have to guess?”

Simon’s heart nearly stops. Going on? Is it that obvious? Does she know? How can she know?

“What do you mean?” it comes out more defensive than he means. He really needs to work on that. He glances at Jeremy, who seems to be willing himself to disappear through the floor.

“Still an enigma, huh?” Lillete says dryly. A cold, sickly feeling trickles through him as Simon realises that she had talking about this morning. She doesn’t seem to take the outburst personally though. Simon supposed he has been pretty touchy lately. He nods mutely, feeling bad for snapping at her. He glances at Jeremy again and Lillete raises her eyebrows at the two of them.

Simon finds himself wondering again what she knows. But he doesn’t want to have that conversation with her yet. She’d definitely ask questions he doesn’t want to answer, isn’t ready to answer. His heart is thudding in his chest.

“Yeah-” Simon says lamely. “Uh- Jeremy and I- we uh- need to study.”

It’s awkward and clunky. There’s an incredulous look on her face that says she clearly knows more than he’s telling her. But she lets it go. For now. She nods as if that wasn’t the vaguest get away card Simon could have tried to pull.

“This isn’t over Saunders! You can’t avoid me forever,” she looks at him pointedly and closes her locker to go.

Simon can’t bring himself to call after her. Jeremy watches her walk away, relief painted over his face.

“Well, that was- absolutely horrible.” He says with a tinge of amusement. And then, his face falls again. “I mean, not talking to Lillete, she’s great, I know you guys are great friends, just- uh-”

Jeremy says in a rush and trails off. He’s watching Simon with wide, uncertain eyes. Those eyes.

Simon feels his cheeks heat up. He wants to just keeps looking into those eyes. He doesn’t know what to say so he just nods. The silence feels like it’s expanding exponentially, hanging over them.

“Lunch?” Simon suggests, and Jeremy nods anxiously, like the wrong word might set Simon off. Guiltily, he realises that might actually be the problem.

They wander in the direction of the canteen. If it had been anyone else Simon would probably have found the worried glances irritating, but his stomach is doing somersaults and he wonders if Jeremy’s might be too. Still, he rolls his eyes.

“Come out with it already!” he says without thinking. He’s doing a lot of that lately. Jeremy stares at him incredulously for a second before dissolving into slightly hysterical laughter. Simon goes pink again as Jeremy’s shoulders shake with it, the sound echoing across the lockers. Still, the sound is contagious, and Simon can’t help but huff in self-depreciating amusement. It’s broken through the awkwardness again, and a smile is back on Jeremy’s face. That smile makes him think he can do anything.

As they each move to grab a tray, Jeremy leans over and mutters under his breath so that no-one but Simon can hear.

“I definitely remember coming out already, Simon,” he whispers, teasing.

He’s close enough that Simon can feel his breath on his neck. He can smell him - warm, slightly earthy, hint of mint in his breath.

Simon freezes as Jeremy smirks just a few inches in front of his face. Something hot and urgent stirs in his chest at the proximity. His eyes flick to Jeremy’s mouth, his lips tingling, breath caught in his throat. For a second, he had thought Jeremy was going to kiss him again. Had wanted Jeremy to kiss him again.

Jeremy freezes too. Still so close, watching him. His eyes dart down to Simon’s mouth and back up. He licks his lips unconsciously, pupils blown wide and dark.

“Hey,” he breathes. There’s a thrill in Simon’s chest. This is him. He is having this impact on the other guy. It feels really good. Arousal stirs in his groin.

He snaps back to reality. They’re in the canteen. There are other students milling around them. An older girl is giving them an odd look. He sucks in a breath, as Jeremy almost seems to shake himself.

There’s a mirrored tinge of colour in the other boy’s cheeks that sends sparks of fresh pleasure shooting down Simon’s spine. Jeremy moves away toward the food, slightly guilty expression on his face as he glances back.

Simon wants to laugh at him, pull him back close. Instead he raises his eyebrows in challenge and smirks right back.

Jeremy’s eyes are bright with interest. He smiles again, curiosity sparkling. Then too soon he turns away to take intense interest in the food options in front of him.

Simon grins to himself, bathing in the glow of this new feeling. He looks back over at Jeremy as if his eyes are drawn by magnets. This can’t be wrong.

It just feels so natural to sit and joke with Jeremy. There’s tension hanging in the air, but it’s light, teasing. It crackles softly between them as they sit and work through lunch, sharing notes.

They aren’t touching, but Simon can almost feel Jeremy next to him anyway. Like the guy radiates heat. His side tingles with proximity. Simon has been feeling like an idiot for weeks, but right now he feels like a happy idiot.

They walk to math together, and even though they part ways to take their usual seats Simon finds himself continuing to smile. He reigns in the urge to turn around and look at Jeremy every couple of minutes, but when he does look around, Jeremy beams right back at him. Simon’s chest sings with the sheer light of it.

The fear and despair of that morning feel like a horrible dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there we go. Simon is dealing with his sexuality much faster than I ever did, even if he's so so so not there yet. But I spy light at the end of the tunnel!
> 
> There's still more I want to get out before Tuesday, but we shall see how much I can write before the canon hits.


	11. The start of something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's later than I meant it to be, so apologies. But here you go folks!

The run through for Principle Evan is ridiculous. The ‘tweaks’, as Mr Mazzou still insisted on calling them, didn’t work at all.

Lillete sang beautifully but watching her standing motionless on stage was disconcerting. The Melchior-Wendla scene with the switch was unbearable and Sasha yelling ‘sometimes he yells at me really loud’ to a sea of gasps was worse.

How could ‘totally hosed’ possibly have seemed like the best option?

It’s frustrating and disheartening, and Ms Wolfe and Mr Mazzou don’t even bother to hide their dismayed faces.

But Principle Evan and the PTA reps smile and clap. Simon detests it.

He’s unspeakably glad when they stop before the Hanshen-Ernst vineyard scene. The idea of letting _them_ have the satisfaction of seeing the flat, diluted scraps that remain of the beautiful scene tastes bitter in his mouth.

Simon feels drained again, like the PTA have sucked the life out of him as well as the play. It doesn’t feel like the day before opening night. There’s no buzz of excitement, no anticipation. He doesn’t want to show people _this_. He doesn’t want to just fudge some false, ‘family-friendly’ lies and pretend.

Spring awakening is supposed to be all about _this_ \- about how dangerous ignorance is, about real issues being disregarded at everyone’s peril, about the risks of taboos and censorship and repression. That their version is curtailed and watered down feels like a betrayal of everything it stands for.

He changes out of his costume miserably. He’s dreading going home, dreading seeing his parents. He feels a wave of exhaustion wash over him, crushing and all-consuming.

He stalls and fidgets. Taking his time. He knows he’s just delaying the inevitable, but he still drags his feet. Puts it off just a little longer.

He can see Jeremy out of the corner of his eye. He’s hovering by the door. Waiting.

Simon hesitates for a second.

“Are you alright?” Jeremy asks before Simon can open his mouth to speak. Everyone else is gone. Simon runs a hand through his hair. His brain feels scrambled. Physical exhaustion mingling numbly with emotional strain.

“Not so much,” Simon admits quietly. He looks at his bag, packed and ready to go, and sighs. He should move. He doesn’t want to.

He shoots Jeremy a strained smile as he leaves the changing room. The other boy follows. They walk through the deserted school in silence. They make it out into the parking lot before Jeremy speaks.

“Simon-” he stops. It’s their pattern now, Simon thinks. Moments of connection and then awkwardness. Simon wants to break the pattern.

“Can I come over?” Simon asks quickly, before he can change his mind. “To your house. Just for a bit.”

As soon as it’s out he wonders if he’s being too forward.  Jeremy is staring at him like he’s just grown another head.

“I mean- uh- if not then that’s- that’s fine, obviously. I just-” Simon fumbles, eyes retreating to damp tarmac. Jeremy is still looking at him in confusion, like he’s speaking in an alien language. It takes a moment.

“Okay-“ Jeremy nods slowly, fidgeting with the strap of his rucksack. “Okay, sure. But who are you, and what did you do with Simon Saunders?”

There’s a tentative smile on Jeremy’s face. It’s all Simon can do to return it. Just smile and hope. And he does hope, he realises. He hasn’t felt hope like this for a long time. A really long time.

It feels strange to follow Jeremy through the car park where they had kissed mere weeks previously. Simon can’t seem to make himself relax in the passenger seat he had sat in after Robbie’s party and implied he felt something acting on stage with Jeremy.

It’s just getting dark, streetlamps adding to the warm orange tint to the low light. Simon finds himself looking across the centre console at the sharp lines of Jeremy’s face, softened only a touch where light catches eyelash. He’s so- Simon can’t find the words to describe him.

Jeremy glances over, catching his eye. A question morphs into self-conscious amusement on his face, but he doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head quietly. They stop at an intersection and he taps a non-specific sequence of beats on the wheel. He looks over at Simon and turns away again quickly.

“Hey, uh- So I wanted to apologise,” Jeremy starts, not taking his eyes off the lights in front of them. They go green, and the car takes off again. The engine revs. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “I shouldn’t have pushed so hard.”

Simon looks away, out of the window. They’re a little further out of town than Simon recognises. The houses blur together, identical in all but the pattern of peeled paint. He’s not sure why, but he had imagined Jeremy’s family to live in the more affluent part of town.

“I’ve never- I didn’t think it through and then I was- well, I was kind of a jerk.”

Jeremy’s admission sits in the air. Simon lets it hang there, watching the scenery go by. They take another turn onto yet another identical street.

“I mean, yeah, kind of,” Simon releases the words with a sigh. He smiles ruefully. “But uh- we did agree earlier that I was an _asshole_ -”

“I’m still sorry,” Jeremy presses. He’s nothing if not persistent, Simon thinks to himself dryly.

“I know,” Simon acknowledges. He’s not holding a grudge. Not now. “Call it even?”

 

Simon hadn’t thought about seeing Jeremy’s home when he had asked to come over – he’d been too fixated on avoiding his own issues. But now that they are driving along small residential streets, he’s very aware that he doesn’t know what to expect. He really doesn’t know Jeremy all that well.

They finally draw up at a house. It’s utterly non-descript, nothing distinguishing from its neighbours - small front garden a little wild, black paint of the front door a little chipped.

 “Is this where you grew up?” Simon asks suddenly, curiosity getting the better of him. Jeremy blinks, glancing back at the row of cloned houses.

“Nope,” Jeremy says simply, seatbelt clicking free. And then he’s out of the car.

The keys jingle softly in the door as they step through into a cream hallway. There’s a single large picture frame propped against the wall – a toddler in blue and a little girl clutching a stuffed cat stare wide-eyed into the camera while a blond-haired man grins at something just out of shot.

Simon stares at it. It has to be Jeremy as a baby, older sister in tow. The man has the same eyes as his son - striking pale blue irises in a handsome face. He doesn’t look so much older than they are now, not really. He imagines Jeremy in maybe 10 years - a little bit of stubble, first signs of fine lines showing as he grins, wide and happy, little kids in tow.

Jeremy walks past the picture and drops his rucksack onto the tiled floor of the next room. Simon trails behind him, clutching his schoolbag like a lifeline, feeling a little unmoored. It feels strange to be here in Jeremy’s space. He wants to take a second to process, but there’s just more to take in.

He looks around the bare. If it weren’t for the pair of mugs and a lonely plate of crumbs sat by the sink it would look unused. It feels strange and cold, contrasting harshly with the warm, gentle smiles Simon associates with Jeremy. In fact the whole house is eerily quiet, it makes his skin prickle.

As if reading Simon’s thoughts, Jeremy is speaking again.

“My dad is working late tonight. Late shift. He’s a nurse, so- uh-” He trails off. His eyes flicker, uncertain as he leans against the counter. He seems to be considering something, trying to figure something out.

“Do- Did- uh-” Jeremy stops. He looks lost, unsure. Somehow, seeing the uncertainty he feels mirrored on Jeremy’s face is reassuring. No expectations, no pressure. Just them.

Simon takes a breath and lowers his bag to the ground to sit next to Jeremy’s, like a peace gesture. He’s not running off. Blue eyes follow his movements and Simon’s gut flutters softly under their scrutiny.

 “Will you give me the tour?” Simon ventures into the silence. He’s not sure if he’s imagining the glimmer of hope in Jeremy’s eyes.

There’s not so much to tell about the house. They’ve not lived there long, Simon realises. The skeleton kitchen connected through to a room with just a sofa and a pile of boxes, a square of untidy grass visible through a window without a blind. He can’t help but think it all looks unloved and a little desolate.

Jeremy runs through ‘the tour’ on autopilot. He points out the bathrooms, his dad’s study. He’s halfway up the stairs when it hits him that he’s headed up to his _bedroom_ , that he’s headed up to show _Simon_ his bedroom. Jeremy stops in his tracks.

“Do you- uh-” The words just won’t seem to come out. Simon is right there, in his house, peering around with interest. He seems more relaxed than Jeremy, which feels unfair on Jeremy’s own home-turf.

But Simon had been the one to ask to come over damnit. Simon had admitted feeling something, even though it clearly terrified him. Simon had argued against censoring the play his own parents were protesting. If Simon could do all that, Jeremy can ask a simple question.

“Do you want to see my room?” he asks, almost holding his breath for the reaction. None comes. Simon just nods, watching him expectantly.

The tension in the air suddenly feels ridiculous. That lunch time they had been laughing and joking, flirting even. Jeremy makes a snap decision.

“Well, tough luck ‘cause it’s a mess!” Jeremy bounds up the last couple of steps, to block the doorway dramatically. He’s grinning and Simon laughs, the sound filling the small hallway.

“Oh, come on,” Simon argues, reaching the top of the stairs. “You made me climb all that way!"

He gestures insistently at the expanse of all of 15 steps.

“You can’t leave me out here in the cold to die alone!” Simon clutches his chest in theatrical exhaustion and despair.

Jeremy’s heart swells with the pure ludicrous joy of it. He pretends to consider the request, unable to squash his smile as he hums in an imitation of thought.

“Well, it will be an inconvenience to have to move your dead body… but-” He leaps back as if to close the door, but Simon is moving again, laughing as he pushes the door back.

“What kind of hospitality is that?!” Simon yelps indignantly, teasing, dark eyes glittering fiercely as he pushes into the room. Jeremy stands to block his path again, only to find Simon right there, face inches from his own.

The grin is still there on Simon’s face, eyes wild with amusement. God, Jeremy wants to kiss him. He’s right there, head tilted up just a fraction, happy grin on his face. Jeremy’s breathing falters, heat washing through him. The proximity is sending tingles of want through his fingertips, his lips. He wants to just lean forward, just kiss him, just pull him close. But it has to be Simon’s call now.

Simon doesn’t move. His heart thuds in his chest. He can’t think. Jeremy is so close, solid presence sending sparks of something through him. Short-circuiting his brain.

There’s no one else here. He could- They could-

Simon’s fingers almost twitch to reach out, to touch him. There’s a tight desperation in his chest. Jeremy’s chest is rising and falling quickly. Lips slightly parted. Simon can see urgency reflected in blue-grey eyes, but Jeremy doesn’t move.

The memory of Jeremy’s lips on his, hand hot on his arm. Jeremy so close. It’s almost too much.

“I want-” you, Simon almost says. Jeremy’s eyes flick to his mouth. His pupils are blown wide, cheeks slightly flushed. Simon really wants to kiss him. He stutters mentally.

He can’t, screams something in the back of his mind. But he really wants to.

“Can we talk?” he manages instead. It doesn’t remove the tension, but it eases something. It feels like there’s air in the room again as Jeremy looks down. He sways back slightly, hands shoved into pockets. But there’s still that spark of something more. Simon can feel it. Like when they had kissed in the parking lot.

 _Do you feel something when you’re with me?_ Jeremy had said, frustration and hurt bubbling in every word. _Do you feel this?_

“I don’t know what to do,” Simon admits. To Jeremy. To himself. It’s been eating him alive, the uncertainty of it. Jeremy takes a step back, further into the room, but he nods. He’s listening. He perches on the edge of the roughly made bed.

“I keep asking myself what I’m supposed to do, and I don’t know.” Simon’s voice is tired even to his own ears. He’s exhausted, the last few days bearing down on him like lead weights. His legs feel heavy as he moves, his spine aches. He needs to sit down. Jeremy sighs, but stays quiet.

Simon lets himself drop onto the single mattress, only a foot away from the other boy. He looks at their feet on the thin carpet. It feels like a relief, like a confession.

“I just- I don’t want to pretend anymore, you know?” Simon says heavily. He feels the mattress move as Jeremy shifts.

“Yeah,” Jeremy agrees quietly. He knows. He knows the feeling. The quiet is companionable, reassuring.

“Jeremy,” Simon broaches. “I think-” He stops. His eyes have fallen on the bright colours tucked behind the door. A flag. A rainbow flag. Large bright stripes, hanging proud and bold and on display. Something cold trickles through him. His mouth is dry.

He tears his eyes away and reaches for the solid warmth of courage he feels when Jeremy smiles at him, the glimmers of hope and connection.

The tiny voice at the back of his head is whispering doubt, but Simon has had enough. Enough of people telling him what to do, what to think. Enough of compromise and sacrifice and enough of anyone telling him how to feel. Defiance thunders in his head, obliterating everything else. He lifts up his chin, steels his spine.

“I like you,” he says, quiet confidence surprising even him.

There’s a kind of wonder on Jeremy’s face. Like he doesn’t quite dare to believe what he’s hearing. Like Simon might suddenly add ‘as a friend’ or ‘no homo’.

There’s a new kind of tension in the air. Like a breath of fresh air. Simon feels like an enormous weight has been lifted off his shoulders. He wants to say it again.

“I _like_ you,” he echoes, tasting the words. And even though it’s been dawning on him for days, weeks even, it feels like a revelation. It’s such a relief to have it out instead of hanging off him, suffocating him.  An incredulous smile is emerging on Jeremy’s face.

“You couldn’t have come up with that a little sooner?” he jabs sarcastically but Simon just laughs, heart racing with the adrenaline of it. The fear of facing his parents feels far away.

“Shut up,” Simon grins. He nudges Jeremy’s shoulder, and feels the other boy push back as he laughs.

Simon feels like an invisible magnet is dragging him into those eyes. Nothing can touch the burst of happiness in his ribcage and the pull toward Jeremy is electric. He wants to feel those lips on his again.

He’s reaching out before he has time to second guess, twisting forward slightly before he has time to register. His heart pounds, his skin buzzes. There’s a tiny flare of surprise in Jeremy’s face and he stops dead, hand hovering over Jeremy’s knee, almost close enough to feel the heat of his skin.

“Can I-” he dares to breathe. Jeremy’s eyes flash between his hand and his face.

And then their mouths meet.

It’s clumsy. The angle is awkward and they’re both hesitant, holding back. But it’s the best kiss of Simon’s life. His hand is on fire where it touches Jeremy’s leg and something hot curls in his gut as Jeremy’s mouth moves against his, lips soft. It feels amazing.

Jeremy breaks the kiss to breathe, resting their foreheads together. His breathing is shallow, breath warm. He laughs softly, light and happy, and Simon feels like he could float away.

“What?” Simon whispers, face hot.

They’re still twisted together, skin warm where they touch. There’s a delighted amusement in Jeremy’s eyes, a teasing expression on his face.

“On my way here this evening, I thought we would only-” he pauses for dramatic effect, gazing into the middle distance, “-talk!”

Laughter rips through Simon. He can’t breathe for it. There’s a bubbling hysteria at the unbounded freedom, the pleasure of Jeremy so close, the ridiculous, exorbitant happiness flooding him. He gulps in air, and dissolves into another fit of it, leaning into the support of the other guy’s shoulder.

Jeremy is grinning openly and it makes something in Simon’s heart sing. He wants to breathe in this feeling forever. He doesn’t want to burst this tiny bubble of bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really need to sleep now, but I wanted to get this up before the episode. Hope you guys enjoyed, and as always let me know what you think!
> 
> I'm not done with this story, but we shall see what happens in the season finale.
> 
> [Btw, my tumblr is also imnotherehonest. It's just my personal mixed jumble of random things, but feel free to come squeak at me there too if you like.]


	12. Now and Next

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually haven't managed to bring myself to watch the episode because I know it's going to be the last one and that makes me sad.
> 
> So I've written more of this instead. Enjoy my avoidance!

Simon likes Jeremy’s room. It doesn’t feel like the rest of the house. It feels lived in. Despite being the same off-white, the walls are bright – a green flier for Wicked, the blue and red advertisement from their production of Guys And Dolls, a multicoloured poster for a band Simon didn’t recognise. There were pictures of the troupe grinning with pizza, photos of Jeremy and an older blonde girl pulling faces on a beach. There’s a desk covered and surrounded in colourful notecards and post-it notes. And of course, there’s the large rainbow flag hanging on the back of the door.

Simon tries to imagine ever feeling able to hang a pride flag in his room. Not that he’s sure he wants to, he backtracks. He’s not sure he’s- He doesn’t want to go there.

Jeremy kicks off his shoes and shuffles back on the bed to lean against the wall behind them. He’s still smiling like he might never stop.

It’s all so unplanned and unexpected. But it feels so good and so right.

“You like me,” Jeremy murmurs, amazement on his breath, like he needs to say it to make it true. It almost sounds like a prayer. There’s an open incredulous happiness on his face. Simon’s abdomen is full of butterflies.

“All right, you don’t have to rub it in,” He grates out, rolling his eyes self-consciously, but he can’t drop the smile making his cheeks ache gently.

“Asshole,” Jeremy snarks back, without bite, and Simon isn’t sure he can get any happier.

“Jerk!” he retorts with a scoff. He shoves himself back to join Jeremy in leaning against the wall.

None of this is anything like it had been with Annabelle. There’s no forcing himself to smile with Jeremy. He doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence with awkward small talk for the sake of it. He’s just interested in a way he never felt with Annabelle. And there’s so much he doesn’t know about Jeremy, doesn’t understand. He has a million questions he wants to ask. But right now he settles for one.

“Is this okay?” Simon needs to ask. Jeremy looks at him curiously.

“Is what okay?” he asks, genuinely. He’s relaxed. This is his space. He’s smiling.

Simon can’t figure out quite how to articulate what he’s asking. He just needs to confirm that things are okay. He needs the reassurance that he’s not somehow messing things up again.

“ _This_ ,” he gestures vaguely. “Us. Kissing. Sitting in your room. Is this okay?”

Jeremy looks at him thoughtfully. He takes a second figuring out how to answer. Simon drops his gaze, but Jeremy’s shoulder is warm against his. He focusses on the feeling.

“You know I like you too, right?” Jeremy says slowly, quietly. “I mean, I like you _a lot_ , Simon.”

Jeremy laughs self-depreciatingly to himself. He tucks his legs up onto the bed and hugs his knees.

“I can’t speak for you, but- us kissing and sitting in my room? That’s more than okay, that’s-” he shakes his head. His voice is edged with soft disbelief, eyes wide with amazement. Simon’s heart tugs in his chest.

“I just- I don’t know what’s next,” Simon admits. He doesn’t know if there can be a next. The idea aches somewhere deep inside. The idea that he might not be able to have this, might not be able to just sit and laugh with Jeremy, to see that soft happy smile in Jeremy’s eyes. It twists painfully at him. It’s horrible and terrifying and repulsive. It makes his chest feel tight, makes nausea creep cold under his ribcage.

Jeremy sighs. The mattress shifts as he moves to look Simon in the eye. He sits cross legged, knee nudging Simon’s gently.

“Yeah,” Jeremy says heavily. “Yeah, I know.”

The happy gleam is gone, but his expression is still soft. He fidgets and studies Simon’s face. A moment passes, and Jeremy sighs again.

“But I- I think we have something.” He’s being careful. His face is cautious. But there’s a tentative edge of hope in his voice. “I think we could have something.

“And I’m not asking for-” Jeremy casts about for words. “I’m not asking you to say anything to your parents. Or to anyone. And I’m not asking for anything you aren’t comfortable with. I know this is- hard. I just-”

He trails off. He’s pleading now and Jeremy doesn’t want to push too hard. He doesn’t want to push Simon away, not again.

“I like you, Simon Saunders,” he finishes. He can’t look at him. Jeremy traces the pattern on his sheets and waits. He daren’t hope for anything, but he does anyway.

Suddenly there’s a touch on his hand. Jeremy startles.

Simon’s heart is going at a million miles an hour. He’s pretty sure he might have an early heart attack if this keeps happening every time he touches Jeremy. It’s not logical. Earlier he had his hand on Jeremy’s knee, their mouths pressed together insistently. But this feels like a bigger deal.

He barely brushes Jeremy’s skin, it’s the tiniest contact, but it’s all-consuming. Jeremy’s hand shifts ever so slightly. Simon curls his little finger over Jeremy’s, loosely linking their hands.

It feels a little silly. Simon feels his mouth curve into a tiny embarrassed smile and tries to put everything he can’t say into his eyes.

“Okay,” Simon says, almost under his breath.

It’s all new, it’s all unknown. But he wants _this_. He wants the tiny casual touches, even if they make his heart race. He wants the unstoppable smiles and the open honesty Jeremy seems to project out into the world around him. He wants to sit with Jeremy and just sit, or talk, or laugh. He wants this _something_ Jeremy keeps going on about. Okay, he decides.

 

They sit like that for a while, hands linked. The quiet is comfortable, hopeful. Then they talk about school, about scraps of homework and strict teachers. Simon asks about the pictures on the wall, and Jeremy smiles, recounting the story of the understudies ‘photoshoot’ as Wendla and Melchior.

They don’t hear the front door click open, but they do hear the voice calling through the house.

“I’m home! You eaten, Jezzy?” It’s a male voice, loud and cheerful. The door slams shut. They’re both frozen, Jeremy looks to Simon, unsure. Their hands are still connected between them.

“That’s my dad,” Jeremy whispers, eyes wide. Neither of them move.

“Jezzy? You there?” The footsteps are moving up the stairs, steadily.

“What do we do?” Jeremy whispers again, staring at Simon like he might be able to answer but Simon just shrugs. He’s feeling that strange wash of hysterical invincibility again, like he can deal with anything. Jeremy looks slightly panicked. The footsteps are getting closer.

“Uh- In here dad.” Jeremy manages to get out. He looks beseechingly at Simon again, but somehow Simon wants to laugh at how surreal it all feels

“Jezzy?” Simon whispers, teasing despite the stress. It breaks the spell. Jeremy scoffs, pulling his hand away and mock batting Simon across the shoulder.

A floorboard creaks, just outside the half-open door. And Jeremy jumps. There’s a knock and he’s on his feet, putting space between them with an amused glare at Simon.

“Are you okay?” Mr Travers asks as the door starts moving open. A dark-blonde head peers around the door, face dropping into surprise as it registers Simon’s presence. “Oh, hi-”

He stalls for a second and then opens the door fully, and moves to lean against the wall looking expectantly.

“Dad, uh- This is Simon, Simon this is my dad,” Jeremy introduces them as Simon scrambles to his feet.

Mr Travers looks at his son and Simon can see Jeremy’s face going pink as the man raises his eyebrows.

“This is _Simon_ , huh?” the man echoes pointedly. The lines around his eyes are deeper, but there is something incredibly familiar about the playful amusement on Mr Travers’ face. “Simon from the play?”

Simon can feel his face heat as Jeremy’s dad looks between the two of them. Simon steps away from the bed self-consciously. Jeremy looks at him, an apology in his eyes, but Simon shoots a tiny smile back. It's terrifying, but it actually feels kinda nice that Jeremy’s dad has heard of him.

“Right,” the man continues, the amusement mixing into a kind of tired resignation as he mutters to himself. “I suppose it was gonna happen one day-

“Okay,” he repeats louder. “Is Simon staying for dinner?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we have the beginnings of some fluff, does this count as fluff?
> 
> As always: comments are love, so let me know if you enjoyed or tell me how I can improve!


	13. Of Parents and Persistence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a little longer in coming, but here is another chapter at last!
> 
> This one is a bit more Jeremy-centric because we haven't much heard from him in a while. Bear with me, there will be Siremy fluff again in not too long (hopefully!).

Simon doesn’t stay for dinner. He’s tempted. It would be another hour or so away from his parents and at this point that definitely feels like a good thing. But it would also mean having to come up with another explanation for why he’s so late back. So Jeremy drives him back to school, to his car. They’re both quiet but it’s a friendly silence, if a slightly uncertain one. 

“So uh- see you tomorrow?” Jeremy says as he stops the car in the empty lot. Simon blinks awkwardly. His brain feels like it’s already started to shut down, like it’s restarting to process an update. He wonders slowly if there’s some sort of protocol for saying goodbye now that they’ve kissed again.

 The prospect of kissing Jeremy out in public is far too daunting, but it feels strange to just say goodbye and have that be it. He feels a bizarre urge to reach out to shake hands, and almost chokes at the ludicrousness of it. He settles on a smile and hopes that is enough.

 “Goodnight Jeremy,” he hears his voice say, as if from a distance. He really needs to sleep.

 He makes it to his car, feeling a little unsteady and takes a moment to drag his attention back to task. He remembers reading that driving tired is as bad as driving drunk, and briefly wonders if he should have called a cab. But right now he just wants to get home. He vaguely sees Jeremy’s car leave the lot and checks his mirrors more carefully than usual before taking the familiar roads home.

 He’s thankful that there’s no-one downstairs as he slips inside, grabbing some cereal as a meal substitute. He’ll eat better tomorrow, he tells himself, but for now his stomach is appeased and he is past exhausted.

 Simon is unconscious almost before he lies down.

* * *

 

Jeremy’s head was buzzing with a million questions as he left the parking lot. Finally on his own for a moment, he ran the day through his head again.

It had been- well, a lot. That morning- and God, had it really only been that morning? -approaching Simon at school had felt like a huge deal.

The outburst at Mazzou had been pretty spectacular. Brave and concerning in almost equal measure. As soon as he had seen him there early, on his own, Jeremy’s legs had carried him over.

He could scarcely imagine how strained things were in Simon’s head, and he just couldn’t leave him like that. Partly because he felt a bit responsible - he knew now that he had exacerbated an already unstable situation. But also because remembered how it had felt before he had come out, before he had dealt with not being straight. He remembered feeling alone, and he remembered feeling scared, and he remembered lashing out and hurting. He didn’t want anyone dealing with that on their own.

Simon’s unpredictable flirting and dismissals had stung. A lot. And Jeremy had lashed out back, telling Simon not to touch him in the play. It had been petty, and Jeremy wasn’t particularly proud of how he had acted.

But despite that, Simon had taken the blame for their awkward scene. He had turned around and fought for Spring Awakening, even fought his own parents for it. He’d kept pushing through, even with all of whatever was going on in his head, everything he was internally struggling with. Jeremy couldn’t hold lashing out against him anymore, no matter how much it had hurt at the time.

So he had gone and sat with Simon. He had tried to just be there, tried to listen rather than assuming or jumping in.

And somehow, they had ended up laughing and joking through lunch, somehow Simon had ended up coming over to his house, somehow Simon had ended up kissing him. And somehow Simon hadn’t completely freaked out.

It was such a lot to take in. It was amazing and surreal and terrifying all bundled into a giant mass. It was simultaneously obscenely simple and incredibly complicated. And now _somehow_ he has to go back into his house, back where Simon had kissed him, and face his dad. His dad who is bound to ask a million question he’s not ready to consider.

Jeremy sits outside in his car for a moment, trying to psych himself up and achieving the opposite. He changes tack and thinks of Simon instead. He thinks of Simon that morning, sat defeated and hurting on his own, clinging too the slightly battered pages of the play. And he thinks of those eyes the day before, dark and angry and terrified, shoulders squared tight and defiant. He thinks of the way that Simon smiles at him when he’s not thinking, the sarcasm and the laughter and the flirting. He opens the door.

The smell of food washes over him as he steps into the house, rich and savoury. He can hear his dad moving in the kitchen.

Jeremy’s dad doesn’t cook particularly often. His job kept him busy with long hours and they usually just stuck to their large stock of frozen ready meals. Jeremy wonders if his dad had cooked to keep himself busy before they could talk.

His dad has never taken any issue with Jeremy’s sexuality in the past, but this was new. He hadn’t had anyone over since he’d come out, let alone someone he was actually interested in. And Jeremy hadn’t intended for his dad to find them alone in his room.

He was vaguely aware that his dad had a few friends who were gay and being non-judgemental was part of the job description of a nurse, but none of that stopped a vague sense of apprehension. After all, his mother had struggled when he had first come out. Not because she was homophobic, she had insisted a little too vehemently when Jeremy’s sister, Katie, had taken issue with her reluctance to acknowledge the news. She didn’t have anything against the people, she had continued loftily - ‘hate the sin, love the sinner’.

There had been a fair number of arguments after that. Katie had refused to talk to their mum for a couple of weeks, and it had taken a while for either of them to come around. Not until after the messy separation, until Jeremy had been able to just talk with his mum one-to one, face-to-face.

“Hey, kiddo,” his dad starts and Jeremy jumps, unsure how long he has been stood in the doorway. “Food’s done.”

He brandishes two plates of chilli, smiling brightly. It looks good but Jeremy isn’t sure how much he can face eating with the potential confrontation hanging over him. He takes a step toward the table hesitantly, as his dad sets the dishes down and drags out a chair.

Jeremy follows suit and looks down at his food numbly. He decides to jump the gun.

“I would have told you Simon was coming over-” It comes out more defensive than he means it to and his dad holds his hands up in surrender.

“You’re not in trouble, kiddo. A little warning would be appreciated next time,” Mr Travers smiles, amusement lighting up tired features. “But since you’ve brought him up-”

“Dad,” Jeremy complains. His dad just picks up his fork and waits. As much as Jeremy wants to sweep the topic aside and file it away for later processing, he supposes it is fair for his dad to want to know the score.

“He’s-” Jeremy fumbles. He’s just not sure _what_ he should tell his dad - not about the butterflies when Simon smiles, and definitely not _anything_ about the simple, unconscious attraction he feels for Simon.

“I mean- We have the same math class. And, you know, the play-” he manages. “He’s a really good singer. And actor-”

Jeremy can’t keep the small embarrassed smile off his face. It’s been an open secret that Jeremy likes ‘Simon from the play’ for a couple of weeks. His sister had not been very subtle about teasing him once he had told her about him.

His dad is still looking at him expectantly. Jeremy doesn’t want to hide anything from his dad, but he doesn’t know how ready he is to explain the situation. He’s not got his head around whatever it is yet.

“We’re not- I don’t know. It’s really- too new,” Jeremy tries to explain. His dad nods thoughtfully, and Jeremy kind of hopes that might be enough for him to drop it. But apparently excessive persistence is a familial trait, and Jeremy has just shoved a forkful of chilli into his mouth when his father jumps in again.

“Hanschen and Ernst kiss in the play, right?” The man asks, innocent tone of the question belied utterly by his smirk. Jeremy nearly chokes on his food. He stares at his dad in dismay and swallows hastily. This conversation needs derailing right now.

“The PTA don’t want any ‘boys kissing boys’ – apparently it’s ‘ _too controversial’_.” Jeremy tries to shunt the conversation down a tangent. He doesn’t have to push the hard line of irritation into his voice.

Jeremy’s dad does stop at that. Apparently he hadn’t heard about the censorship 'tweaks', and he frowns like he might comment. But it’s still not enough to throw him off his original thread. He’s really not getting the hint.

“So you and Simon haven’t kissed?” he continues, sceptically.

Jeremy feels his face heat. He doesn’t want to answer that. How does he explain the mess of their first kiss? And what is the situation now? What does Simon want? He dreads facing the worst of the unfolding implications of whatever undefined _thing_ they have. But he’s not going to lie under direct questioning.

He shovels another mouthful of food into his mouth, trying to delay the inevitable. His dad laughs a crow of victory across the table.

Frustratedly, Jeremy muses that normally this teasing would actually be a good thing. His dad had done the same when Katie had first dated – in it’s way it is a display of acceptance for his sexuality. But right now, it’s the last thing that he wants and his temper is fraying fast. Why can’t his dad just leave it?

“Oh, so a very definite ‘yes dad, we’ve kissed loads’?” the man taunts, oblivious amusement written all over his face. Jeremy’s cheeks burn. He shakes his head indignantly, regretting the decision to try to stall the conversation with such a large mouthful of food.

“No!” he manages, covering his mouth and trying to chew faster. “Dad, it’s more complicated than-”

“But you have kissed?” Mr Travers pushes, still grinning broadly despite his son's protests. Jeremy can feel tension building internally, like an elastic band winding tight. Why can’t he just stop?!

“He’s not out!” Jeremy snaps furiously. “To anyone. He’s- Hell, he’s barely out to himself!”

Jeremy wants to scream, frustration and fear bursting past the usual restraint he maintains with his parents. His dad’s face plummets, realisation coming too late that he has blundered into something more than simple teenage reluctance to talk.

“And his parents ‘ _don’t agree with homosexuality’_!” His voice escapes strangled with hurt and bitterness, loud in the small space. The very idea rips at something painfully in Jeremy’s gut, like an old wound being torn open.

“Because apparently they’re ‘ _very Catholic_ ’. And they signed the _stupid_ PTA petition. And he feels like _crap_!

“But yeah, dad, we’ve kissed. That’s clearly the important thing!” he spits, tasting the venom on his tongue.

But as soon as the sarcastic jab is out, he regrets it. Jeremy scrubs at his eyes. He’s so frustrated and tired and angry at the unfairness of it all. It’s just so stupid! On the other hand, that not of that is his dad’s fault. The kitchen is silent.

“Sorry,” Jeremy mumbles through his hands. It feels like his chest might crumple in on itself. He wills himself not to cry. He feels overwhelmed by the day, the revelations and the terrifying novelty of it – the sheer emotional intensity.

 “Kiddo, hey, look at me,” his dad says softly. The scrape of chair legs on tile seems unbearably loud. “Look at me.”

Jeremy scrunches his eyes tight and takes a shaky breath. He tries to blink away the sting of tears and drops his hands back to his lap. His dad’s face is apologetic.

“I’m sorry for pushing so hard, I didn’t think,” the man sighs, the lines of his face looking deeper than ever. “But I want you to be able to tell me this stuff! That’s- a lot. For either of you to deal with. You shouldn’t have to deal with it on your own!”

Jeremy nods. He feels fragile, emotions still boiling painfully just under the surface. His throat is tight with it, diaphragm still threatening sobs. His dad runs his hand through hair that is just starting to recede, looking older than his years. The corner of his mouth crooks into a grim smile.

“I know you talk to your sister, but I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to me too. About anything. Even boys. Okay?” his dad teases gently. Jeremy sniffs.

“I’m not talking to you about boys, dad,” he grumbles under his breath. Anger spent, he feels hollowed out and drained. He doesn’t have the energy to stay irritated. He knows his dad means well.

“Ah, so it’s exclusive? It _must_ be serious – this Simon is a lucky guy,” his dad jokes again, but it’s gentle. Jeremy groans exaggeratedly, rolling his eyes.

“Da-ad!”

The topic is dropped peaceably. Their dinner is a little lukewarm, but Jeremy is starving and it soothes the reel of unease in his gut. There's nothing he can do now, he thinks.

He excuses himself quickly after dinner and falls asleep to the familiar lull of the Spring Awakening soundtrack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I've fallen back onto an edge of angst again. Apologies!
> 
> The next chapter will probably not be up for a couple more days - I am apparently supposed to work for my degree, even if I only have another month left. 
> 
> But let me know what you think - your comments really do fuel me to write (sometimes when I should be doing other things) so keep 'em coming!
> 
> Look after yourselves, folks!


	14. The Day of Opening Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, aren't you all lucky?!

Simon wakes up uncharacteristically sharply. It’s the day of the play. The thought tastes sour, acrid.

Normally opening night would be an ecstatic occasion. He and Gwen had had a routine for final run throughs and song practise. They had approached almost like a professional task, but there was always a streak of glee in having everything ready to show the world.

There is none of that today. There’s just a defiant anger simmering behind his eyes in the mirror. He drags every drop of frustration together and steels himself.

There’s a small stack of tickets on his dresser that remind him forcefully that this will be the first of his plays that his parents will not be seeing. If they knew he had kissed Jeremy yesterday would they ever come to one of his shows again?

He grabs the tickets. He’s not hiding from his family today. He walks head held high, right into the kitchen. His parents are still playing their happy family act.

“Okay. Uh- Your tickets,” he says curtly, letting the tiny pieces of card flick down onto the table in front of his dad. “For my opening night. In case anyone decides to show up.”

The kitchen is silent. He has their attention. But he can’t help the pang of hurt at the idea that they might not bother, that his opinion could hold so little weight. He refuses to cry in front of them, refuses to give his dad the satisfaction of seeing his defeat.

“Which you probably shouldn’t. Show’s going to suck now. Thanks to everyone that signed that stupid petition.” It comes out a bit rushed, the passive aggression sounding a little sulky in the bright kitchen. But it feels right to stand his ground.

“Simon,” his mum calls, slight warning in her voice. “We’re all coming to see you tonight.”

“You are?” A flare of surprise and panic squeezes Simon’s chest. His family are coming to Spring Awakening? Tonight? “All of you?” he asks, hope and fear competing for room in his head.

He wants them to come to his show. Even with all of the censorship, he’s worked really hard on it for months, and perhaps some of the message will shine through. He wants to show them what it means, wants them to see what he sees. But on the other hand-

“I know you’re angry about the petition,” his dad starts in a placating tone. But as he stands up to his full height it feels like a power move. “-and my involvement with it. But now that the play’s been modified, we’ll all be there. As a family.”

_As a family._ The words are pointed, and it makes Simon feel sick. Compromise, modification, family. It feels like a mantra. His dad’s face has all the emotion of a stone, and the stoic, unrepentant blankness of it carves away at something in Simon’s chest. He wants to curl up in a ball and cry.

“That’s good news, right Simon?” Emma steps in, timidly.

Simon feels released from his dad’s vice-like gaze by the sound of her voice. She looks anxious, staring down at the floor. She knows something is going on. His heart tugs painfully. He doesn’t want to drag his sister into this feud. He feels unmoored. He had been set on being angry at his parents, and without that he’s lost. He hesitates.

“Yeah- Yeah, of course it is,” he hears himself say.

He can see his mum smiling. The whole scenario feels detached from reality. It’s all so fake, so put on. He hates it. Despite his pledge to himself to eat better today, he leaves the kitchen with an empty stomach. He can’t face staying in there, the discordant smiles and bright, warm light are too much.

He finds himself sat in his car in the school parking lot again, feeling like the floor has been pulled from under him. The day seems to float by, buoyed by the flutter of his heart as it seems to try to escape his chest, and then they are all starting preparations for the evening's performance.

He is one of the last to notice Principle ward going into the drama office. It feels like he’s watching through water. The buzz of warm ups and preparations washes over him like treacle, slowing his thoughts. The Troupe stalls to watch. They all know that it can mean only one thing - more cuts, more changes, more censorship of their hard work.

They watch as something seems to die in Mr Mazzouchelli’s eyes. There’s the resignation of a dead man on his face and the room goes eerily quiet as the principle leaves with a smile on his face. The sound of silence drags Simon’s attention into sharp focus as the director walks, almost unsteadily, out to face them.

“Mr Mazzou, are you okay?” Francis asks. Mr Mazzouchelli doesn’t react. His eyes are glazed.

“Robbie, Lillete, uh- the beating scene…” he says, voice rough with exhausted resignation. They all know what’s coming. It’s like a heavy weight settling around the room.

But then Mr Mazzouchelli’s head starts to rise. He looks like he’s waking up from a trance.

“Let’s go back to the original version,” he says slowly. “The way it was before we made the edits.”

Confusion ripples through the room. Surely he can't mean- He can't mean the _original_.

But Lillete gathers herself to ask and the director nods decisively. Shockwaves hit. The _original_ original. The practice room air swims with disbelief. Realisation dawns slowly.

The original. 

Simon bites his lip and closes his eyes. He doesn’t dare to actually hope. It's too much to ask for. Anticipation and fear pulse with every heart beat. 

“Okay, what about _The Dark I Know Well_ ,” Gwen dares to ask. “Is it child abuse or is Marta’s dad just really mad at her.”

Mazzou nods, and it’s like he’s still waking up from a strange dream - of course it should be child abuse, good point. And why would it ever be totally hosed? F-bomb it is!

The room is starts to smile, and it's like someone has opened a window and let in sunlight for the first time in a week.

“My junk?” Simon finds his voice to ask.

“That goes back. It all goes back,” Mr Mazzouchelli confirms with a nod, tired eyes throwing caution to the wind. Hope flares bright, and then suddenly burns low in a flurry of anxiety. He could be fired, they could be stopped,and what if they can't even get to the second act? 

But it's Jeremy’s voice that really brings everything crashing back to Earth for Simon. Their scene. Their full scene. His parents. The original has them kiss. Twice. It’s like his insides have disintegrated and left a vacuum in their place. He would have to kiss Jeremy on stage in front of hundreds of people. He would have to kiss Jeremy in front of his dad. In an instant he can’t breathe.

“Well, you’re right,” Mazzou concedes, wearily. The teacher's voice grates low like he’s been screaming for hours. He looks utterly decimated, exhausted to his core.

“Look, I- I have tried to do the best I can for you. I really have. But I might not be invited back to direct you again, and I just- I- can’t bear the thought that the very last thing I taught you all was to cave, to play it safe, to compromise.”

Mr Mazzouchelli sounds like a man flayed alive, torn and wrecked, but still fighting on.

“Principle Ward, the PTA- They mean well, they do. But th- But they- they’re wrong!” The teacher exclaims. He exhales, he laughs, relief splashed bright across his face.

Simon feels like his nerves have been lain open. It’s everything he’s been saying and fighting for. And he wants to be pleased, but his gut swings immediately into dread. He feels sick.

“I mean, sometimes you’ve just got to say screw it, right?” Mr Mazzouchelli continues. The room is tense despite the ripple of laughter. “I think this is one of those times!”

“But it’s not- it’s not just up to me. It’s up to all of us,” he affirms. “Show of hands, who’s with me?”

There’s a beat. The air is awash with uncertainty. Lillete blinks and shakes her head, hand going up in a sharp jerk. Michael’s hand follows, his face resolute. Then Jeremy’s hand is up, despite the caution in his posture. Hands start to raise. Some take more deliberation than others.

A sick wave of fear rolls through Simon. His parents will be at this show. He would be openly defying them. It feels beyond reckless, it feels outright dangerous. Every instinct is screaming at him to cut and run. But this is what he’s been fighting for. This is what he believes in. This is honesty and truth, and he doesn't want to run anymore.

He’s the last to raise his hand, but when he does the room comes alive.

Even with fear swilling cold in his veins, the enthusiasm is infectious. A smile tugs his face. But as activity buzzes through the choir room and returns to full intensity, Simon can’t ignore the churn in his gut. This had better work.

With new resolve, everything seems to kick up a gear. There’s a new spring in the troupe’s step, renewed energy in the choreography, but Simon feels weighed down like lead in a balloon.

He goes through the motions and practises the familiar steps, but his heart thuds awkwardly. He can’t match the grins of his castmates. He's just grateful that almost no one seems to notice, tied up in their own preparation. He tugs the St Francis jacket over his hoodie, trying to find strength in the victorious defiance of it.

Jeremy’s eyes find his in the mirror, worry in the set of his face. Simon keeps his head up, but he knows his expression is tempered with fear. Jeremy’s face softens just a little. Solidarity and hope flare in Simons heart as Jeremy nods, and he lets the feeling carry him through the start of the play.

There’s a sheer power of joy to having this play as theirs to share in it’s full glory and Simon let’s himself fall into it head first. The play has never felt more real, more alive. The audience seem in rapture, and despite the walk-outs at the beating scene, the atmosphere is electric.

But then Simon finds himself standing alone with his thoughts in the wings. He can see Jeremy grinning at something on the other side of the stage, and all he can feel is the swoop of terror in his gut.  He doesn't know what to do. No matter what he does, he’s betraying someone. Does he defy his dad or the teacher he respects? Does he disappoint his family or his closest friends? Blood is roaring in his ears, and his chest is so tight he can’t catch his breath.

“Mr Mazzou, I don’t- I- I don’t think I can do it,” he admits aloud. He feels like he might be sick.

“Do what?” the director murmurs distractedly. On the stage, the scene between Moritz and his dad continues.

“The scene with Jeremy,” Simon breathes. “Uh- The- The kiss scene.”

Simon pulls in a shaky breath. He feels cold, hands sweaty.

“My- My parents are out there a- and- and if they-” he’s paralysed as Moritz’s dad moves to hit his son. It feels like a bizarre nightmarish precognition.

“Alright, alright, alright” Mr Mazzouchelli cuts him off. “Stay calm, let’s talk about it.”

His voice is low, smooth and soothing, but Simon can’t pull his eyes off the stage. His mind feels fragmented with panic, thoughts as jagged as his breathing.

“I always thought- when I was on stage, I- could just… act.” Simon gets out. “That I could be anyone, that I’d be safe. But I don’t feel safe.”

He can feel a sheen of sweat on his face. He’s always acted, always played someone else. But Hanschen- Hanschen is too real. Hanschen is too dangerously close to home. A nasty coil of shame puts a foul taste in Simon’s mouth.

“You trusted me, and I let you down,” Simon confesses, cold defeat sitting heavy in his gut.

“Simon, listen to me,” Mr Mazzouchelli says urgently. “You could never let me down. Do you hear that? I- I need you to hear that.”

The director’s voice is fervent as he continues.

 “You go out there, and you do whatever version of the scene you’re comfortable doing, okay? His face is utterly earnest, open and honest. Simon’s heart aches to get any of this from his dad. Tears blur Simon’s vision. He’s not sure his father would ever say any of this.

“I am so proud of you!” Mr Mazzouchelli whispers.

Wounded self-belief rallies in Simon’s chest.  A shaky, self-depreciative smile dawns on his face. It means a lot. His dad might never say it, but this man here in front of him has instead. His family might not understand, but the troupe stood up for each other - they had each other’s backs.

Warmth trickles through him like a burst pipe, frozen limbs beginning to defrost. The nerves in Simon’s gut still flutter restlessly, but he knows what he’s going to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are following the events of episode 10 at last, but I am hoping to continue on after it. I have loved this show, and it has dragged the urge to write back to me - may be fairly obvious, but I haven't actually written fanfiction since ff.net times! (Back when I was actually the same age as the Rise kids... Makes my 23 years feel old!)
> 
> Up next: the play continues
> 
> As always, do let me know what you think!


	15. The Show Goes On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One Vinyard Scene coming right up!

The interval comes and goes in a flurry of movement and excitement. Even despite the full beating scene, they haven’t been stopped. Simon doesn’t dare to do more than shoot Lillete a thumbs up across the rehearsal space. There’s an urge, like an itch under his skin, to seek out Jeremy. But he doesn’t dare. If he does he might lose his resolve.

Simon loses himself in the soft choruses that start the second act. The crack of pistol shot to black rings in his ears through the funeral scene. He can feel fear rising again. A voice at the back of Simon’s mind whispers that he doesn’t have to do the kiss – he could still back out. Simon strangles the idea. He’s not running.

He throws everything into _Totally Effed_. The wild, furious joy and hysteria of it is utterly real. He’s screaming at the world, calling out all of its expectations and rules.

The Troupe don’t hold back. The original choreography is full on, grinding and thrusting and screaming into the void.

“Totally fucked!” they scream. There’s a moment of shock in the auditorium, but laughter breaks through the faint gasp. Loud, enthusiastic applause fills the theatre even as the cast start to leave the stage.

Then the lights dip, church bells fading into earshot. And suddenly it’s time.

Simon can hear his own breathing, can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips. He settles himself on the hard stage, closing his eyes. He lets out a breath and lets himself slip into Hanschen’s self-assured posture.

“The bells are so… peaceful,” Simon sighs as the lights come up.

“I know,” Jeremy murmurs across the stage. He looks uncertain, but Simon has no idea if it’s real or acted.

“Sometimes,” Jeremy smiles wistfully out over the heads of the audience, “when it’s quiet in the evening like this- I imagine myself as a country pastor.”

Simon projects a scoff, shifting his weight into the questioning tilt of his head. Ernst’s smile turns uncertain as he hurries to finish the train of thought.

“-with a red cheeked wife and a library and degrees. And the boys and girls who live nearby will give me their hands when I go walking-”

“You can’t be serious,” Hanschen interrupts bluntly, deadpan. Jeremy looks down, embarrassment written plain on his face.

When he had first read the script, Simon had struggled to see past Hanschen mocking Ernst. It had seemed harsh, unkind and uncalled for. But that isn’t how he reads it now - he hears flirtation in the teasing, sincerity under bravado. Hanschen is disillusioned with the world and frustrated at their lot. He’s cocky and upfront, but he’s not cruel. He’s just proud of the way he gets around the pitfalls he sees in their world.

“Really Ernst, you’re such a sentimentalist!” Hanschen says, but his voice is warm with affectionate exasperation. “The pious, serene faces you see on the clergy- it's all an act. To hide their envy!”

Simon shifts on the stage to perch next to Jeremy. Hanschen sincerely believes in his cynical world view and he lets an edge of bitterness seep into his voice.

“Trust me, there are only three ways a man can go. He can let the status quo defeat him – like Moritz. He can rock the boat – like Melchior – and be expelled. Or he can bide his time and let the system work for him – like me.”

Jeremy’s eyes are glued to him, scepticism pulling blue eyes into a soft frown. Hanschen wants to keep the attention of those eyes, Simon wants to keep the attention of those eyes. He moves closer, smirking slightly as Ernst, as Jeremy, doesn’t really move away.

“Think of the future as a pail of whole milk,” Hanschen muses glibly, dragging out the metaphor. “One man sweats and stirs – churning it into butter – like Otto, for example. Another man frets, and spills his milk, and cries all night. Like Georg. But me?”

Simon lets himself look Jeremy up and down where he sits.

“Well, I’m like a pussycat – I just- skim off the cream.” Simon’s eyes flick down to Jeremy’s lips. Jeremy’s face is open and lost.

“Just- skim off the cream?” he echoes, voice soft.

“Right,” grins Hanschen.

“But, what about-” Ernst cuts in. Simon’s face feels like it might tear in two. The ludicrous teasing, the thrill of seeing the flicker of distraction in Jeremy’s face as he darts his tongue out to wet his lips. There’s a real breath of laughter trying to break free.

“You’re laughing,” Jeremy huffs, but it only adds to Simon’s amusement. Ernst rolls his eyes. “What-? Hanschen?”

The music builds and the spotlight changes. Simon turns Hanschen’s confident stare toward the audience. It’s a dance, Simon reminds himself of  Mazzou’s direction. He starts to stand.

“ _Come cream away the bliss,_  
_Travel the world within my lips,_  
 _Fondle the pearl of your distant dreams…_  
 _Haven’t you heard the word of your body_?”

Simon’s eyes are dragged magnetically back to the boy sat on the stage. Jeremy’s gaze follows him as Simon moves as if in an orbit around him. Hanschen and Ernst are gone, all Simon can see is Jeremy.

_“Oh, you’re gonna be wounded,”_ Simon sings. His heart stutters as he kneels to face the boy he wants to kiss.

_“Oh, you’re gonna be my wound.”_ The fear of what he is about to do stabs through him as he reaches for Jeremy’s hand. His fingertips tingle at the contact.

_“Oh, you’re gonna bruise too,”_ Jeremy’s skin is soft and warm against his lips. His face is full of an open longing. Simon wants to convey all of the fear and want and everything in between. The ache of wanting something you’re told you can’t have.

_“Oh, you’re gonna be my bruise,”_ Jeremy’s eyes trace Simon’s body as he begins to lean forward. His lips are gently parted, his eyes are lit with tentative hope. Simon feels his face soften slowly into a smile.

It’s like his heart is being tugged toward Jeremy, into the kiss. He wants this from the very core of his being.

There is no sound. Simon daren’t breathe. Jeremy is so close, and all Simon can see is his mouth. He can feel the faintest catch of stubble against his palm, short hair soft at the back of Jeremy’s neck as he tilts their mouths together.

The kiss sends showers of sparks through Simon’s gut. He doesn’t want it to be over. When he pulls back, Jeremy’s expression mimics his own. He can’t look away. Silence hangs in the air.

Jeremy swallows.

“Oh god-” the line comes out as barely more than a hitch of breath.

“I know,” Simon can only follow suit. He desperately wants to kiss Jeremy again, but there are more lines to deliver.

“When we look back, thirty years from now, tonight will seem unbelievably beautiful,” he pronounces effusively. It’s a momentary bubble of optimistic naivety in the dark outlook of Spring Awakening. But Jeremy is looking at his mouth again, and it goes straight to his groin.

“And in the meantime-?” The guys asks, the beginnings of a playful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His eyes are so blue. They seem to shine independent of the stage lights.

“Why not?” Simon grins. He surges forward eagerly to capture soft lips again.

This time Jeremy tugs him forward, closer. Simon is vaguely aware that the stage direction is for this kiss to be more intense, but he’s not acting anymore as he leans further into Jeremy. The air feels hot. It turns open mouthed and Simon wants him closer, wants more, wants-

Jeremy pushes him back suddenly. His face is flushed, eyes dark. Simon blinks, startled back to reality. They stare at each other for a moment. Jeremy looks down guiltily, and then out across the audience.

“On my way here this afternoon, I thought perhaps we would only-“ Jeremy’s voice is cut with an anxiety that Simon isn’t sure is intentional and his stomach drops sickeningly, “-talk.”

The memory of the evening before hits him broadside, as he reels from the realisation that his family and community had just watched in stunned silence as he made out with another boy. He fumbles, off kilter. He can’t look at Jeremy, he can’t look out into the audience for fear of seeing his family. But he can’t stop now. He glares down at the stage.

“So are you sorry that we-?” there’s a defensive fear to the line that Simon identifies with too strongly.

“Oh, no!” Jeremy’s hand is on his, and it tugs his attention back to brilliant blue eyes. “I love you Hanschen. As I have never loved anyone!”

The words tugs at something unfamiliar. Simon feels like he’s on a roller coaster – dread and bliss and fear and affection undulating in waves. But looking at Jeremy, being around Jeremy, being with Jeremy- It all feels right.

The line is Ernst of course, but Simon feels a sharp pang in his chest that his family, his dad, don’t want him to have this. That his dad wants an empty, fake marriage without the warmth in those blue eyes, without the inexplicable happiness Simon feels when Jeremy smiles, without the flutter of attraction in his gut. The idea of living that lie, that unhappy betrayal of his own feelings – that is what feels wrong. Not this, never this.

“And so you should,” Simon says plainly. Because why shouldn’t Ernst love Hanschen? Why shouldn’t one boy love another? He smiles softly across a small distance between them.

“ _Oh, I’m gonna be wounded,”_ Jeremy starts to sing. His voice has always impressed Simon. It’s not trained with years of music lessons like his or Gwen’s – Jeremy just has a natural talent.

“ _Oh, I’m gonna be your wound_.” Simon could just sit and listen to Jeremy sing, just sit and watch him as he just breathes life into the words. But soon the play would be over.

“ _Oh, I’m gonna bruise you,_ ” they sing together, but Simon is barely aware of what he’s singing. He’s too lost in Jeremy’s face, in the thought of if they might be able to keep spending time together after the play.

“ _Oh, I’m gonna be your bruise._ ” The thought of not seeing Jeremy feels like a bruise, Simon thinks, as if someone has hit him with something hard. It’s not just painful, it makes him feel winded. He’s not ready to lose this connection.

There’s a question in Jeremy’s eyes, but Simon needs everything to stop, just for a moment. He touches their foreheads together.

They’re so close – eye to eye, noses almost touching. Simon can feel the soft puffs of breath, can smell soap and the faintest tang of sweat. His skin is tingling hot where their knees touch. The rest of the cast start to come in for the chorus, and suddenly their scene is ending.

Simon refuses to let this be the last time he has Jeremy Travers this close. He forces himself back to the present, to open his eyes, to stand. He looks down at Jeremy, still sat on the floor.

He knows he’s going to have to fight for this. It’s going to be painful and confusing. It’s only going to get worse before it gets better. It’s a big risk.

Simon reaches out his hand. Jeremy takes it and smiles.

Maybe Mr Mazzouchelli was right - maybe sometimes you just have to say screw it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed! (I could use the cheering up this week so do let me know)
> 
> Now that I'm basically done colouring around the lines of the episodes, we are heading into uncharted territory. I do have plans for what comes next though so watch this space.


End file.
